The Lonesomest Doll
learned to love her so dearly! As if she were only a doll herself Jacques handed her down to Jean, who stood on the ground beside them. But when he tried to pull Mignon from Clotilde’s closebound arms she clung as tightly as she could.
“Mamma, Mamma, Mamma!” cried Mignon frightedly, as her poor little body was squeezed in the rough grasp of Jean.
“What’s that? Heavens above! What’s that?” gasped the robber, who had never before heard of a talking doll. And he fell back, imagining it the voice of a fairy,—just as Mother Marie had done.
But Jacques was less easily frightened. “Oh, come on! Be quick about it,” he muttered. “They are hard upon us—give me the doll.” And, indeed, the sound of hoofs was very near now echoing down the road behind them.
Jacques tore the doll from Clotilde’s arms, and was hurrying back to his horse when again in his hands Mignon began to cry—“Mamma, Mamma, Mamma!” so piteously that he paused. He glanced from the doll down at Clotilde, who lay on the grass in the moonlight with the tears running down her cheeks, looking after Mignon. She