"They're just like mother's at home, mother's that you made for her when she was a little girl--only ever so many more." "Well, Milly, I made mother's for her long ago, when it rained for days and days without stopping, and she had grown tired of pretty nearly everything and everybody indoors; and now I have been spending part of these rainy days in making a new set for mother's little girl.

There, dear little woman, I think you must have given me a kiss for each of them by this time.

Suppose you try and make them stand up." "But, Aunt Emma," said Olly, who was busy examining the mysterious bag--how could the dolls talk?
they're only paper." "I know nothing about it," answered Aunt Emma, rescuing the bag, and putting it safely under her chair.

"You _might_ ask the bag--but it wouldn't answer you.

Magical bags never do talk except to their masters or mistresses." So Olly had to puzzle it out for himself while he played with the Japanese frog.