“Why don’t you send Miss McDonald a letter?  You tell me what to say and I’ll write it down for you, but don’t let mamma know till you see if you get anything.”

The little girl’s fancy was caught at once with the idea, and the following letter was the result: 

“Brown cottage, ’Most Tissmas time.

“Dear miss MCDOLLY:—­I’se an ’ittle dirl named for you, I is, Daisy Thornton, an’ my papa is Mr. Guy, an’ mam-ma is Julia, and ’ittle brother is Guy, too—­only he’s a baby, and vomits up his dinner and ties awfully sometimes; an’ I knows anoder ’ittle girl named for somebody who dives her ‘sings,’ a whole lot, an’ why doesn’t youse dive me some, when I’se your sake-name, an’ loves you ever so much, and why’se you never turn here to see me.  I wish you would.  I ask papa is you pretty, an’ he tell me yes, bootiful, an’ every night I p’ays for you and say God bress papa an’ mam-ma, an’ auntie, and Miss McDolly, and ‘ittle brodder, an’ make Daisy a dood dirl, and have Miss McDolly send her sumptin’ for Tissmas, for Christ’s sake.  An’ I wants a turly headed doll that ties and suts her eyes when she does to seep, and wears a shash and a pairesol, and anodder bigger dolly to be her mam-ma and pank her when she’s naughty, an’ I wants an ‘ittle fat-iron, an’ a cookstove, an’ wash-board.  I’se dot a tub.  An’ I wants some dishes an’ a stenshun table, an’ ‘ittle bedstead, an’ yuffled seets, an’ pillars, an’ blue silk kilt, an’ ever so many sings which papa cannot buy, ’cause he hasn’t dot the money.  Vill you send them, Miss McDolly, pese, an’ your likeness, too.  I wants to see how you looks.  My mam-ma is pretty, with black hair an’ eyes, but she’s awful old—­I dess.  How old is you?  Papa’s hair is some dray, an’ his viskers, too.  My eyes is bue.

“Yours respectfully,
Daisy Thornton.”

* * * * *

Miss McDonald had been shopping since ten in the morning, and her carriage had stood before the dry-goods stores, and toy-shops, and candy stores, while bundle after bundle had been deposited on the cushions, and others ordered to be sent.  But she was nearly through now, and just as it was beginning to grow dark in the streets she bade her coachman drive home, where dinner was waiting for her in the dining room, and her mother was waiting in the parlor.  Mrs. McDonald was not very well, and had kept her room all day, but she was better that night, and came down to dine with her daughter.  The December wind was cold and raw, and a few snowflakes fell on Daisy’s hat and cloak as she ran up the steps and entered the warm, bright room, which seemed so pleasant when contrasted with the dreariness without.

“Oh, how nice this is, and how tired and cold I am!” she said, as she bent over the blazing fire.

“Are you through with your shopping?” Mrs. McDonald asked, in a half-querulous tone, as if she did not altogether approve of her daughter’s acts.