A good many years ago, in the city of Philadelphia, lived a little girl, named Nannette. One summer afternoon her mother went to pay a short visit to her aunt, who lived near by, and gave her little girl permission to amuse herself on the front door-steps until her return. So Nannette, in a clean pink frock and white apron, playing and chatting with her big, wax "Didy," which was her doll's name, formed a pretty picture to the passers-by, some of whom walked slowly, in order to hear the child's talk to her doll. "You'se a big, old girl," she went on, smoothing out Didy's petticoats, "and I've had you for ever and ever, and I'se mos' six. But you grow no bigger. You never, never cry, you don't. You'se a stupid old thing, and I'm _tired_ of _you_, I am! I b'leve you'se only a _make b'leve_ baby, and I want a _real_, _live_ baby, I do--a baby that will cry! Now don't you see," and she gave the doll's head a whack--"that you don't cry? If anybody should hit _me_ so, I'd squeam _m-u-r-d-e-r_, I would! And then the p'lissman would come, and there would be an _awful_ time. There, now sit up, can't you? Your back is like a broken stick. Oh, hum, I'm tired of _you_, Didy." Leaving the doll leaning in a one-sided way against the door, Nannette posed her dimpled chin in her hands, and sat quietly looking into the street. Presently a woman came along with a bundle in her arms, and seeing Nannette and "Didy" in the doorway, went up the steps and asked the little girl if she would not like to have a real little _live_ baby. "One that will _cry_?" eagerly asked Nannette. "Yes, one that will cry, and laugh, too, after a bit," answered the woman, all the time looking keenly about her; and then in a hushed voice she asked the child if her mother was at home. "No--she's gone to see my auntie, shall I call her?" replied Nannette, jumping to her feet, and clapping her hands, from a feeling as if in some way she was to have her long-wished-for _live_ baby. "No; don't call her; and if you want a baby that will _cry_, you must be very quiet, and listen to me. Mark me now--have you a quarter of a dollar, to pay for a baby?" "I guess so," answered Nannette; "I've a lot of money up stairs." And running up to her room, she climbed into a chair, took down her money box from a shelf, and emptying all her pennies and small silver coin into her apron, ran down again. "This is as much as a quarter of a dollar, isn't it?" The woman saw at a glance that there was more than that amount, and hastily taking poor little Nannette's carefully hoarded pennies, she whispered: "Now carry the baby up-stairs and keep it in your own little bed. Be careful to make no noise, for it is sound asleep. Don't tell anybody you have it, until it cries. Mind that. When you hear it cry, you may know it is hungry." Then the woman went hurriedly away, and Nannette never saw her again.