"How you remember, Mother. I wish I could! I can see her still, but I can't hear her voice. You see, I was only about thirteen when she died, and children forget so soon. I can remember looking down into her face and thinking that her eyes were like violets; and I remember a little white dress trimmed with 'flowering,' and a blue cloak with a hood. I remember at breakfast-time she used to walk round the table and ask for tops of eggs. She only got a whole egg on Sundays, and she never forgot to pray, 'Bless my whole egg next Sabbath day.' She was a very happy child. I think she enjoyed the little short time she had in the world, but she was very shy and timid, wasn't she? You remember, when Mrs. Lang asked her to a tea-party alone, it quite preyed on her mind? The day of the party she summoned up courage to ring the Langs' bell, but when the servant came she had no words. Three times she rang the bell without being able to give a message, and the third time Mrs. Lang came herself and said, 'Now, Rosamund, you are a naughty child, and you must not ring the bell again until it is time for the party.' Poor little Rosamund crept away without ever being able to explain that all she wanted to ask was that I might go with her! Rather unlike Robbie, when Mark and I were invited to a party, and he called at the house to ask if there had been any mistake that he hadn't been invited." "Dear Robbie," said Mrs. Douglas, then fell silent. In a little she spoke again: "Christmas to me, even now, always seems Rosamund's time. It is odd to think that she was only with us for five short years, and she has been away more than twenty, and yet the thought of her is always with me. She lives to me so vividly that it seems only yesterday that it all happened. As Christmas drew near, you were all excited, but Rosamund seemed utterly possessed with the spirit of the season. She wanted to give presents to every one she knew, and couldn't understand why any limit should be put to the size of our Christmas party. She loved dolls--unlike you, Ann, who never knew how to hold a doll!--and I dressed her two great big ones for her fourth Christmas, a wax one called Muriel, and Black Sam. Old Mrs. Hamilton in the church made her a wonderful rag-doll, as big as a baby, with arms and legs complete, only the face had a gruesome lack of profile. I dressed up like Father Christmas and brought all the presents into the room in a big basket, and made speeches as I gave them out, and Rosamund was speechless with delight. She could hardly tell me about it when I came into the room a few minutes later, and her great regret was that I had happened to be out of the room; she thought it was such bad luck for me. When she was dying she said, 'When Father Christmas comes this year, tell him you have no Rosamund, and ask him to give my presents to Ann.'"