"Why don’t you send Miss McDonald a letter? You tell me what to say and I’ll write it down for you, but don’t let mamma know till you see if you get anything." The little girl’s fancy was caught at once with the idea, and the following letter was the result: "_Brown Cottage_, ’Most Tissmas time. "_Dear Miss Mac-Dolly_:—I’se an ’ittle dirl named for you, I is, Daisy Thornton, an’ my papa is Mr. Guy, an’ mam-ma is Julia, and 'ittle brother is Guy, too—only he’s a baby, and vomits up his dinner and ties awfully sometimes; an’ I knows anoder ’ittle dirl named for somebody who dives her ’sings,’ a whole lot, an’ why doesn’t youse dive me some, when I’se your sake-name, an’ loves you ever so much, and why you never turn here to see me? I wish you would. I ask papa is you pretty, an’ he tell me yes, bootiful, an’ every night I pays for you and say God bress papa an’ mam-ma, an’ auntie, and Miss Mac-Dolly, and 'ittle brodder, an’ make Daisy a dood dirl, and have Miss Mac-Dolly send her sumptin’ for Tissmas, for Christ’s sake. An’ I wants a turly headed doll that ties and suts her eyes when she does to seep, and wears a shash and a pairesol, and anodder big dolly to be her mam-ma and pank her when she’s naughty, an’ I wants an’ ’ittle fat-iran, an’ a cook-stove, an’ washboard. I’se dot a tub. An’ I wants some dishes an’ a stenshun table, an’ ’ittle bedstead, an’ yuffled seets, an’ pillars, an’ bue silk kilt, an’ ever many sings which papa cannot buy, cause he hasn’t dot the money. Vill you send them, Miss Mac-Dolly, pese, an’ your likeness, too. I wants to see how you looks. My mam-ma is pretty, with back hair an’ eyes, but she’s awful old—I dess. How old is you? Papa’s hair is some dray, an’ his viskers, too. My eyes is bue. "Yours, respectfully, "_Daisy Thornton_." ———— Miss McDonald had been shopping since ten in the morning, and her carriage had stood before dry goods stores, and toy shops, and candy stores, while bundle after bundle had been deposited on the cushions and others ordered to be sent. But she was nearly through now, and, just as it was beginning to grow dark in the streets, she bade her coachman drive home, where dinner was waiting for her in the dining-room, and her mother was waiting in the parlor. Mrs. McDonald was not very well, and had kept her room all day, but she was better that night, and came down to dine with her daughter. The December wind was cold and raw, and a few snowflakes fell on Daisy’s hat and cloak as she ran up the steps and entered the warm, bright room, which seemed so pleasant when contrasted with the dreariness without. "Oh, how nice this is, and how tired and cold I am!" she said, as she bent over the blazing fire. "Are you through with your shopping?" Mrs. McDonald asked, in a half-querulous tone, as if she did not altogether approve of her daughter’s acts.