Jewel laughed and patted her pony’s glossy neck.  “I guess I like Star best the way he is,” she replied, “but grandpa, did you ever hear of such a darling dog?”

“I confess I never did,” admitted the broker.

“I should think there was some trick Star could learn,” said Jewel musingly.

“Why, of course there is.  Tell Zeke you wish to teach Star to shake hands.  He’ll help you.”

This idea pleased Jewel very much, and in the fullness of time the feat was accomplished; but by the time the black pony had learned that he must lift his little hoof carefully and put it in his mistress’s hand, before his lump of sugar was forthcoming, he wished, like the Lady Gertrude, that there had never been a yellow dog in the world.

When next Mrs. Evringham, Jewel, and Anna Belle settled in the ravine to the reading of a story, it was Jewel’s turn to choose.  When her mother had finished naming the remaining titles, the child hesitated and lifted her eyebrows and shoulders as she gave the reader a meaning glance.  Mrs. Evringham wondered what was in her mind, and, after a minute’s thought, Jewel turned to Anna Belle, sitting wide-eyed against a tree.

“Just excuse me one minute, dearie,” she said; then, coming close to her mother’s ear, she whispered:—­

“Is there anything in ‘The Talking Doll’ to hurt Anna Belle’s feelings?”

“No, I think she’d rather like it,” returned Mrs. Evringham.

“You see,” whispered Jewel, “she doesn’t know she’s a doll.”

“Of course not,” said Mrs. Evringham.

Jewel sat back:  “I choose,” she said aloud, “I choose ‘The Talking Doll.’”

As Anna Belle only maintained her usual amiable look of interest, Mrs.
Evringham proceeded to read aloud as follows:—­

* * * * *

When Gladys opened her eyes on her birthday morning, the sun was streaming across her room, all decorated in rose and white.  It was the prettiest room any little girl could have, and everything about the child looked so bright, one would have expected her to laugh just for sympathy with the gay morning; but as she sat up in bed she yawned instead and her eyes gazed soberly at the dancing sunbeams.

“Ellen,” she called, and a young woman came into the room.

“Oh, you’re awake, Miss Gladys.  Isn’t this a fine birthday Mother Nature’s fixed up for you?”

The pleasant maid helped the little girl to bathe and dress, and, as the toilet went on, tried to bring a cheerful look into Gladys’s face.  “Now what are you hoping your mother has for you?” she asked, at last.

“I don’t know,” returned the child, very near a pout.  “There isn’t anything I want.  I’ve been trying to think what I’d like to have, and I can’t think of a thing.”  She said this in an injured tone, as if the whole world were being unkind to her.

Ellen shook her head.  “You are a very unlucky child,” she returned impressively.