"I want my mother!" she panted out, and wept, and would not be comforted.

Then Cynthia took her away from the parrot and produced the doll.

Then truly did the sentiment of emulative motherhood in her childish breast console her for the time for her need of her own mother.

Such a doll as that she had never seen, not even in the store-windows at Christmas-time.
Still, she had very fine dolls for a little girl whose relatives were not wealthy, but this doll was like a princess, and nearly as large as Ellen.
Ellen held out her arms for this ravishing creature in a French gown, looked into its countenance of unflinching infantile grace and amiability and innocence, and her fickle heart betrayed her, and she laughed with delight, and the tension of anxiety relaxed in her face.
"Where is her mother ?" she asked of Cynthia, having a very firm belief in the little girl-motherhood of dolls.

She could not imagine a doll without her little mother, and even in the cases of the store-dolls, she wondered how their mothers could let them be sold, and mothered by other little girls, however poor they might be.