DOLLY’S BEDTIME.

C4|{ ER name was Dolly, but she wasn’t a little pink-and-
white thing made of wax. No, she was a real Dolly,
CIN of flesh and blood, and she lived in a pretty little white
cottage, overrun with sweet wild-roses, that held up their
heads and blossomed in the sun from early June until late
September.

There were red roses and white roses hid in the dainty
bowers of green, but Dolly loved the white roses best—perhaps
because she was so like a white rosebud herself.

No flush ever crossed her pale cheek, and the light of health
never bloomed there. People used to stop at the gate, and
watch the little lame girl, who went up and down the garden-
walk on her old-fashioned crutch, and think there never was
such a patient face as hers, but no one ever thought of calling
it beautiful. —

Sometimes grandpapa would take her long rides in her little
carriage out among the trees and wild-flowers, then mamma
would wrap her up warm, and give her little girl a sad, loving
kiss, for she knew that soon the angels would call her to their
beautiful home.

By and by the gay, golden summer had gone away, and
autumn came, with its crown of scarlet leaves, with its wide
delicious orchards sweetening the air with the smell of apples
and pears and great mellow peaches; and other children ran
and gathered the fruit in big baskets, and laughed away the
hours as they turned toil into pleasure with their happy hearts ;
but little Dolly no longer went up and down the garden-path
on her little crutch, or out riding in her little carriage. Her
patient little face was only seen through the window; but she
was cheerful and sunny-tempered all day long, and every day,

in spite of pain and disappointment.
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