"Why, of course you can have it, child," said her mother; "but what on earth do you want it for?
I was goin' to put it in the rag-bag." "I want to make my dolly a dress." "Why, that ain't fit for your dolly's dress.

Only think how queer that beautiful doll would look in a dress made of that.

Why, you 'ain't thought anything but silk and satin was good enough for her." "I'll give you a piece of my new blue silk to make your doll a dress," said Eva.
But Ellen persisted.

When the doll came out of her closet of vicarious penance she was arrayed like a very scullion among dolls, in the remnant of the dress in which Fanny Brewster had done her house-work all summer.
"There," Ellen told the doll, when her mother did not hear "you look more like the way you ought to, and you ought to be happy, and not ever think you wish you had your silk dress on.

Think of all the poor children who never have any silk dresses, or any dresses at all--nothing except their cloth bodies in the coldest weather.