All at once there was a little stir and flutter among the crowd, and murmurs ran about from one to another of "The Princess! the Princess!" Ethel clapped her hands, and nearly danced upon her seat, for this was almost _too_ delightful; and in another minute there came in sight a very plain, neat carriage, with dark horses, and servants in sober liveries, and there, smiling and bowing, sat the sweet and gracious lady who will probably one day be Queen of England. She is so good and so charming that the English people love her dearly; and all the gentlemen's hats came off in a minute, and all the ladies bowed, and everybody looked as pleased as possible. As for Ethel, she bowed so hard that she looked like a little Chinese Mandarin, and even jumped up to get another glimpse as they passed, for their own carriage was just turning out of the great Park gates to go home to Portland Place. Actually, for five minutes, she had forgotten her beloved doll; but what may not happen in five minutes? "Sophonisba Sylvia, my precious," she murmured, turning to take her in her motherly arms, "did you see the Princess? Isn't she _loverly_?--almost as beautiful as you?" But here she stopped quite short. Alas! it is almost too dreadful to go on writing about. How can I tell you? There was no Miss Sophonisba S. P. Tudor! She had totally vanished. Oh, poor, poor Ethel! Nine years old, and beginning to learn German verbs, and yet her tears rained down like an April shower. "Oh, my Sophonisba! The best, the dearest, of my twenty-three dolls! Oh, mamma! mamma! _can_ I go on living without her?" "Ethel, my own," cried her distracted mother, clasping her in her arms, "don't cry, my pet, don't cry. We'll advertise for her; we'll offer rewards; we'll go to Creamer's this moment, and buy you another; we'll send to Paris, Vienna, anywhere." But oh! you among my readers who are mothers of dolls yourselves, you can fancy how Ethel rejected this last consolation. Another doll! Could there be another Sophonisba? Never! oh, never! And should her place be taken by another, even if there were? "Please, mamma," she murmured, burying her tear-stained face in Lady Ponsonby's best silk mantle, "I would so much rather not. I don't want another. I couldn't love any one else like her. Oh, Sophy Sylvia!" No use to look for the dear lost one. They drove back the whole way they had come, and asked five policemen, but not a trace was to be found. But where, all this time, was Miss Plantagenet Tudor? Scarcely had she recovered her senses from the shock of her violent fall upon the wood pavement at Hyde Park Corner, when she was seized by the waist, and a rich Irish brogue greeted her ears. "Arrah, thin, what an illigant doll! Sure and it's wild wid joy Norah'll be to get it. Come along, me darlint."