“’Let the prisoner drink a gallon of iced water at once, and then be left to die of thirst.’

“The horrible idea that the speaker might possibly have the power to enforce his sentence diverted my attention from the slate, and I looked round.  In front of the Jack-in-a-box stood a tiny red flower-pot and saucer, in which was a miniature cactus.  My thoughts flew back to a bazaar in London where, years ago, a stand of these fairy plants had excited my warmest longings, and where a benevolent old gentleman whom I had not seen before, and never saw again, bought this one and gave it to me.  Vague memories of his directions for repotting and tending it reproached me from the past.  My mind misgave me that after all it had died a dusty death for lack of water.  True, the cactus tribe being succulent plants do not demand much moisture, but I had reason to fear that, in this instance, the principle had been applied too far, and that after copious baths of cold spring water in the first days of its popularity it had eventually perished by drought.  I suppose I looked guilty, for it nodded its prickly head towards me, and said, ’Ah! you know me.  You remember what I was, do you?  Did you ever think of what I might have been?  There was a fairy rose which came down here not long ago—­a common rose enough, in a broken pot patched with string and white paint.  It had lived in a street where it was the only pure beautiful thing your eyes could see.  When the girl who kept it died there were eighteen roses upon it.  She was eighteen years old, and they put the roses in the coffin with her when she was buried.  That was worth living for.  Who knows what I might have done?  And what right had you to cut short a life that might have been useful?’

“Before I could think of a reply to these too just reproaches, the flower-pot enlarged, the plant shot up, putting forth new branches as it grew; then buds burst from the prickly limbs, and in a few moments there hung about it great drooping blossoms of lovely pink, with long white tassels in their throats.  I had been gazing at it some time in silent and self-reproachful admiration, when I became aware that the business of this strange court was proceeding, and that the other toys were pronouncing sentence against me.

“‘Tie a string round her neck and take her out bathing in the brooks,’ I heard an elderly voice say in severe tones.  It was the Dowager Doll.  She was inflexibly wooden, and had been in the family for more than one generation.

“‘It’s not fair,’ I exclaimed, ’the string was only to keep you from being carried away by the stream.  The current is strong and the bank steep by the Hollow Oak Pool, and you had no arms or legs.  You were old and ugly, but you would wash, and we loved you better than many waxen beauties.’

“‘Old and ugly!’ shrieked the Dowager.  ’Tear her wig off!  Scrub the paint off her face!  Flatten her nose on the pavement!  Saw off her legs and give her no crinoline!  Take her out bathing, I say, and bring her home in a wheelbarrow with fern roots on the top of her.’