"Are many of the toys you know as wicked as that?" asked Molly. "Oh, dear no!" said the little Marionette, quite shocked. "Most of my friends and acquaintances are really wonderfully well-behaved." "Do you know, I should like you next time to tell me about one of them." "About some one simple, perhaps?" "Yes, I think so." The little Marionette thought a moment. Then she said: "I know of no one more simple than Belinda." "Tell me about her, if you please." "Very good. You shall hear of Belinda and her simplicity." So the next day she told her friend the story of "Belinda." BELINDA Belinda was a little wax doll who had a most charming way of opening and shutting her eyes. When Mortals were about, she could not do it unless they helped by pulling a wire. But when once the shop was closed, and the toys, left to themselves, could move at pleasure, _then_ Belinda pulled her own wires and opened and shut her eyes as she pleased. She did this in so simple and unaffected a fashion that it delighted everyone to see her. "What simplicity! what delightful simplicity!" said the other toys. "'Tis really charming!" "Singularly simple," repeated the Butcher, who always stood at the door of his shop, watching for the customers that so seldom came. "She is like an innocent lamb," he added, his thoughts turning to his trade; "a simple, harmless lamb." "Elle est tres gentille, la petite Belinde," remarked Mademoiselle Cerise, the French doll just arrived from Paris. "Elle est une jeune fille fort bien elevee; elle ferme les yeux d'une facon vraiment ravissante." "Here we are again, Simplicity and Self!" said the Clown, turning a somersault and landing by Belinda's side with a broad grin upon his face. She made no reply, but instantly closed her eyes. She was not quite sure but that he was laughing at her, so she thought it more prudent not to see him. "There! did you notice?" ... "Wasn't it pretty and simple?" said all the Toys to one another as they looked at Belinda. I must, however, make an exception when I say "all" the Toys. There was one who did not utter a word. This was Jack, the curly-headed Sailor-Boy, who was deeply in love with Belinda. He was so unhappy about the matter that he feared to speak of her lest in so doing the thought of his sorrow should make him shed unmanly tears in public. I will tell you the cause of his grief. He could not make her see how much he loved her. Whenever he came near her she immediately closed her eyes. So that it did not matter what expression he assumed, it was all wasted on Belinda. He worried himself about it very much. "Is it," said he to himself, "because she doesn't happen to see, or because she doesn't wish to see? How can I make her open her eyes? Shall I speak to her coldly or gently, with mirth or with melancholy, in poetry or in prose?" "I will be poetical," he resolved; "I will sing her a song of love. That may induce her to open her eyes."