“Oh, Peter, you naughty boy!” cried Ann.  “You’ve been at the cupboard, and Aunt Jane said expressly we were not to take anything out of it!”

“You are just like Bluebeard’s wife,” began Rudolf, but Peter—­as was his way—­paid no attention to either of them.  He put the box down on the hearth-rug, and got on his hands and knees to open it.  Then, of course, the other two thought they might as well see what there was to see, and all three heads bent over the box.  After all it contained nothing very wonderful, the cover itself being the prettiest part, Ann thought, for on it was painted a bright-colored picture of a little girl in a funny, high-waisted, old-fashioned dress, making a curtsy to a little boy dressed like an old gentleman and carrying a toy ship in his hand.  The box was filled with old toys, most of them chipped or broken.  There was a very small tea-set with at least half of the cups missing, a wooden horse which only possessed three legs, and the remains of a regiment of battered tin soldiers.

“How funny the box smells—­and the toys, too!” Ann said.  “Sort of queer and yet sweet, like mother’s glove case.  I think she said it was sandal-wood.  That set must have been a darling when it was new, but there’s only just a speck of blue left and the gilt is every bit gone.  These must be Aunt Jane’s toys that she had when she was little.”

“That was a long time ago,” remarked Rudolf thoughtfully.  “I don’t see why Aunt Jane didn’t throw ’em away, they’re awful trash, I think.  Those soldiers aren’t bad, but—­”

Just then Ann’s sharp eyes caught Peter as he was about to slip away with a little parcel done up in silver paper that had lain all by itself at the very bottom of the box.  By this time she and Rudolf had both forgotten that they had no more right than Peter to any of the things in the box, and both threw themselves on their little brother.  Peter fought and kicked, but was at last forced to surrender the little parcel.  Under the silver paper which Rudolf hurriedly tore off, was layer after layer of pink tissue infolding something which the boy, when he came to it at last, tossed on the floor in his disgust.

“Pshaw,” he exclaimed, “it’s nothing in the world but an old corn-cob!”

“Yes, it is, too,” said Ann, picking it up.  “It’s a doll, the funniest old doll I ever saw!”

And a strange little doll she was, made out of nothing more or less than a withered corn-cob, her face—­such a queer little face—­painted on it, and her hair and dress made very cleverly out of the corn shucks.  Ann burst out laughing as she looked at the old doll, and turning to her new children, Marie-Louise and Angelina-Elfrida, which her mother had given her for Christmas, she placed the two beauties on the hearth-rug, one on each side of the corn-cob, just to see the difference.  This seemed to make Peter very cross.  He tried his best to snatch away the old doll, but Rudolf, to tease him, held him off with one hand while with the other he seized the poor creature by her long braids and swung her slowly over the fire.