But there was something more.  Around her neck she wore a ribbon; on the ribbon was a cardboard medal; and on the medal a childish hand had scratched the legend,—­

Miranda Terry. If lost, please return her to her mother, Angelina Terry, 87 Overlook Terrace.

It was such a card as Miss Terry herself had worn in the days when her mother had first let her and Tom go out on the street without a nurse.

Mary stared hard at the bit of cardboard. 87 Overlook Terrace!  Yes, that was where she had found the doll.  She remembered now seeing the name on a street corner. Miranda; what a pretty name for a doll! Angelina Terry; so that was the name of the little girl who had lost Miranda.  Angelina must be feeling very sorry now.  Perhaps she was crying herself to sleep, for it was growing late.

Her two girl cousins came romping into the bedroom.  They had been having a hilarious evening.

“Hello, Mary!” they cried.  “We heard about your great find!”—­“Playing with your old doll, are you?  Goin’ to hang up her stockin’ and see if Santa Claus will fill it?”—­“Huh!  Santa Claus won’t come to this house, I guess!”

Mary had almost forgotten that it was Christmas Eve.  There had been nothing in the house to remind her.  Perhaps Angelina Terry had hung up a stocking for Miranda at 87 Overlook Terrace.  But there would be no Miranda to see it the next morning.

Her cousins teased her for some time, while they undressed, and Mary grew sulky.  She sat in her corner and answered them shortly.  But presently the room was quiet, for the girls slept easily.  Then Mary crept into her little cot with the doll in her arms.  She loved Miranda so much that she would never part with her, no indeed; not even though she now knew where Miranda belonged. 87 Overlook Terrace!  The figures danced before her eyes maliciously.  She wished she could forget them.  And the thought of Angelina Terry kept coming to her.  Poor Angelina!

“She ain’t ‘poor Angelina,’” argued Mary to herself.  “She’s rich Angelina.  Doesn’t she live in a big house in the swell part of the city?  I s’pose she has hundreds of dolls, much handsomer than Miranda, and lots of other toys.  I guess she won’t miss this one queer old doll.  I guess she’d let me keep it if she knew I hadn’t any of my own.  I guess it ought to be my doll.  Anyway, I’m going to keep her.  I don’t believe Angelina loves Miranda so much as I do.”

She laid her cheek against the doll’s cold waxen one and presently fell asleep.

But she slept uneasily.  In the middle of the night she awoke and lay for hours tossing and unhappy in the stuffy little room.  The clock struck one, two, three.  At last she gave a great sigh, and cuddling Miranda in her arms turned over, with peace in her heart.

“I will play you are mine, my very own dollie, for just this one night,” she whispered in Miranda’s ear.  “To-morrow will be Christmas Day, and I will take you back to your little mother, Angelina Terry.  I can’t do a mean thing at Christmas time,—­not even for you, dear Miranda.”