"Oh, Ernestine, don't say that. She is not alive now, but perhaps she may get alive. Mamma told me once of a man in Greece, called Pygmalion, who made a marble doll for himself, and loved it so dearly that it grew warm and came to life. And I believe that if I should love my doll dearly she might get alive; and I am sure I shall love her very dearly! She can say 'papa' and 'mamma' already, which Herr Pygmalion's doll could not do at all; and in time I shall perhaps bring her on, just as he did his!" And she clasped the "lump of leather" to her little heart, gazed tenderly and hopefully into its blue glass eyes, and was quite content. Ernestine looked at her with mournful wonder; she understood now that "Faith gives peace," and she envied the child her happiness. "Would you not rather have a puppy or a kitten?" she asked gently. "It could eat and drink, and you could feed it, and it would understand what was said to it, and run after you, and love you? Would not that be nicer?" A shade of sorrow passed over Angelika's rosy face, like a cloud over the sun. "Oh," she sighed, "we have a little dog; but I cannot feed it; it does not eat nor drink!" "Why not? Is it sick?" "No; it is stuffed." Ernestine smiled in spite of herself. "Then you have no dog!" "Oh, yes, we have! he is called Assor. He only died, and mamma had him stuffed, so that he lies perfectly quiet near the fire, and never stirs. Mamma says he will not come to life again. Oh, Ernestine, it is very sad,--when I stroke him, he never licks my hand any more! I call him hundreds of times, and he used to turn his pretty black head round towards me, but he does not do it now; he cannot see nor hear me, and he used to love me so much." The little girl covered her eyes with her hand and began to cry. Ernestine tried to soothe her. "Your mother ought to have had the dog buried. Then you would have forgotten him and not grieved after him." "No! oh, no! I could not have borne that. What! have the faithful old dog hidden in the ground! It would have been too hard! He was so faithful; he never left our side; and when he could hardly walk, he used to creep out of his basket to welcome us when we came into the room, and when he was dying in my lap, he looked up at me so mournfully, as if to say, 'I must leave you now.' And could I hide him away and forget him? That would be dreadful. No, no! he shall lie by the fire in the drawing-room; it is far more comfortable there than in the cold ground, and I will always think how good he was. And I'll tell you what,--when mamma dies she shall not be buried either. I will put her dressing gown on her and let her lie in her soft bed. Then I will pretend she is sick, and I will sit by her every day and talk to her, and, even if she does not answer me, I shall know what she would say if she could speak. And if she cannot kiss me, I will kiss her all the more. That will be a great deal better than to have nothing left of her; will it not?"