A Toy Tragedy

This is a story mostly about dolls, and I'm afraid that all boys, and a good many girls who have tried hard to forget that they ever had dolls, won't care to hear it. Still, as I've warned them at the very beginning, they mustn't blame me if they read on and find it doesn't interest them.

It was after dark, and the criss-cross shadows of the high wire-fender flickered on the walls and ceiling of Winifred's nursery in the firelight. Winifred's newest doll, Ethelinda, sat on top of a chest of drawers, leaning back languidly against the wall.

Ethelinda was a particularly handsome doll. She had soft, thick, golden hair arranged in the latest fashion, full blue eyes with more expression than most dolls' eyes, a rose-leaf complexion, a haughty little curl on her red lips, and a costume that came straight from Paris. She ought to have been happy with all these advantages, yet she was clearly dissatisfied. She looked disdainfully at everything around her: the colored pictures from illustrated papers on the walls, the staring red dolls' house, the big Noah's ark on the shelf, and the dingy, dappled rocking-horse in the corner. She despised them all.

"I do wish I were back in Regent Street," she sighed aloud.

Another doll sat close by, but Ethelinda hadn't directed her remark to him, as he didn't seem at all the sort to encourage. He was certainly odd-looking: his head was a bit too big for his body, and his body far too big for his legs. He had fuzzy white hair and a face rather like Punch's, only with all the fun taken out of it. When someone pinched his chest hard, he squeaked and shut his eyes as if it hurt him—and very likely it did. He wore a gaudy jester's dress of red and blue, and once he had carried a cymbal in each hand, clapping them together whenever they made him squeak. But he had always disliked making so much noise, for he was quiet and retiring by nature, so he'd gotten rid of his unmusical instruments as soon as he could.

Still, even without the cymbals, his appearance was hardly respectable, and Ethelinda was a little annoyed to find him so near, though he never guessed her feelings—which was fortunate for him, for he had fallen in love with her.

Since he'd first entered the nursery, he'd been knocked about a good deal, but life had begun to seem more bearable from the moment she became part of it. He'd never dared speak to her before; she'd never given him the chance. Besides, it was enough just to look at her. But now he thought she meant to be friendly and start a conversation.

"Are you very dull here?" he asked nervously.

Ethelinda stared at first; no one had introduced them, and she felt inclined to ignore him. However, after her long silence, she thought it might amuse her to talk to someone, even if it were only a shabby, common creature like this jester.

So she said, "Dull! You were never in Regent Street, or you wouldn't ask such a question."

"I came from the Lowther Arcade," he said.

"Oh, really?" drawled Ethelinda. "Then, of course, this must be a pleasant change for you."

"I don't know," he said. "I liked the Arcade. It was so lively; a little noisy perhaps—too much top spinning, and pop-gunning, and mouth-organ playing all around—but very cheerful. Yes, I liked the Arcade."

"Very mixed society there, isn't it?" she asked. "Aren't you expected to know penny things?"

"Well, there were a good many penny things there," he admitted, "and very amusing they were. There was a wooden bird that used to duck its head and wag its tail when they swung a weight underneath—it would have made you laugh!"

"I hope," said Ethelinda freezingly, "I should never so far forget myself as to laugh under any circumstances—and certainly not at a penny thing!"

"I wonder how much he cost," she thought. "Not much, I can tell from his manner. But perhaps I can get him to tell me." She asked aloud, "Do you remember what was the—ah—premium they asked for introducing you here? Did you happen to catch the amount?"

"Do you mean my price?" he said. "Oh, elevenpence three farthings—it was on the ticket."

"What a vulgar creature!" thought Ethelinda. "I shall have to drop him."

"Dear me," she said, "that sounds very moderate indeed. But perhaps you were 'reduced'?" for she thought he might be more bearable if he had cost a little more once.

"I don't think so," he said. "That's the fair selling price."

"Well, that's very curious," said she, "because the young man at Regent Street—a most charming person, by the way—positively wouldn't part with me under thirty-five shillings. And he said such delightful things about me that I feel quite sorry for him sometimes, thinking how he must miss me. But then, very likely he's saying the same thing about some other doll now!"

"I suppose he is," said the jester (he'd seen something of toy-selling in his time). "It's his business, you know."

"I don't see how you can possibly tell," said Ethelinda, who hadn't expected him to agree. "The Lowther Arcade is not Regent Street."

The jester didn't care to dispute that. "And were you very happy at Regent Street?" he asked.

"Happy?" she repeated. "Well, I don't know. At least, one wasn't bored there. I was in the best set, you see—the two-guinea one—and they were always getting up something to amuse us in the window: a review, a sham fight, a garden party, or something. Last winter they gave us a fancy-dress ball; I went as Mary Stuart and was much admired. But here—" and she finished with a disdainful shrug.

"I don't think you'll find it so bad here once you get used to it," he said. "Our mistress—"

"Pray don't use that unpleasant word," she interrupted sharply. "Haven't you heard of 'dolls' rights'? We call those people 'hostesses.'"

"Well, our hostess, then—Winifred—she's not unkind. She doesn't care much about me, and that cousin of hers, Master Archie, gives me a hard time when I cross his path. But really, she's very polite and attentive to you."

"Polite and attentive!" sneered Ethelinda (and if you've never seen a doll sneer, you can't imagine how alarming it is). "I don't call it attention to be treated like a baby by a chit of a girl who can't dress herself properly—no style, no elegance, and actually wears a pinafore in the mornings!"

This is how some costly lady dolls talk about their benefactors when the gas is out and they think no one can hear. I don't know whether the plain, old-fashioned dolls, who aren't so carefully treated but often more tenderly loved, are as bad; but it's impossible to say—dolls are exceedingly artful, and there are people quite clever in other things who will honestly tell you they don't understand them at all.

"And the society here," Ethelinda went on, not sparing the other's feelings—perhaps she thought he was too cheap to have any—"is really too dreadful for words. Why, those people in that poky little house over there, with only four rooms and a front door they can't open, have never had the decency to call on me. Not that I'd take any notice if they did, but it shows what they are. And the other day I actually overheard some frightful creature in a print dress, with nothing but a tin tack on her head, ask another horror 'which she liked best—make-believe tea or orange juice!'"

"Well, I prefer make-believe tea myself," said the jester, "because, you see, I can't get the orange juice down, and it's bad for my dress and complexion."

"Possibly," she said scornfully. "I'm thankful to say I haven't been asked to try it—even Miss Winifred knows better. But anyway, it's horribly dull here, and I suppose it will be like this forever now. I did once hope that when I went out into the world, I'd be a heroine and have a romance of my own."

"What is a romance?" he asked.

"I thought you wouldn't understand," she said. "A romance is—well, there's champagne in it, and cigarettes, to begin with."

"But what is champagne?" he interrupted.

"Something you drink," she said. "What else could it be?"

"I see," he said. "A sort of orange juice."

"Orange juice!" cried Ethelinda contemptuously. "It's nothing like orange juice. It's—" (she didn't know what it was made of, but there was no point telling him) "I couldn't make you understand without too much trouble; you're so very ignorant. But there's a lot of it in romances. And dukes, and guardsmen, and being very beautiful and deliciously miserable, until just before the end—that's a romance! My milliner used to have it read to her while she was dressing me for that ball I told you about."

"Would you mind telling me what a heroine is?" he asked. "I know I'm very stupid."

"A heroine? Oh, any doll can be a heroine. I always felt heroines were just like me. They were either very good or very wicked, and I'm sure I could be one or the other if I got the chance. I think it might be more fun to be a little wicked, but it's not quite so easy, you know."

"I should think it would be more uncomfortable," he suggested.

"Ah, but you see, you haven't any sentiment about you," she said disparagingly.

"No," he admitted, "I'm afraid I haven't. I suppose they couldn't put it in for elevenpence three farthings."

"I should think not," said Ethelinda. "It's very expensive." And then, after a short silence, she said more confidentially, "You were talking about Master Archie just now. I rather like that boy, you know. I believe I could make something of him if he'd only let me."

"He's a mischievous boy," said the jester, "and ill-natured too."

"Yes, isn't he?" she agreed admiringly. "I like him for that. I fancy a duke or a guardsman must be something like him—they all have wicked black eyes and long restless fingers. It wouldn't be so dull if he noticed me a little, but he never will!"

"He's going back to school next week," the jester said rather cheerfully.

"So soon!" sighed Ethelinda. "There's hardly time for him to make a real heroine of me. How I wish he would! I wouldn't care how he did it or what came of it. I'm sure I'd enjoy it, and it would give me something to think about all my life."

"Say that again, my dainty little lady; say it again!" cried a harsh, jeering voice from beside them.

"And if you really mean it, perhaps the old Sausage-Glutton can manage it for you. He's done more wonderful things than that in his time, I can tell you."

The voice came from an old German clock on the mantelpiece—or rather, from a strange painted wooden figure that was part of it: an ugly old man who sat on top with a plate of sausages on his knees and a fork in one hand. Every minute he slowly forked up a sausage, then suddenly swallowed it, his lower jaw wagging and his narrow eyes rolling horribly.

The children had long since nicknamed him 'Sausage-Glutton,' which he richly deserved. He was a sort of magician, with so much clockwork inside, and he was spiteful and malicious—likely from all the wooden sausages he bolted, which would ruin anyone's digestion and temper.

"Good gracious!" cried Ethelinda, startled. "Who is that person?"

"Someone who can be a good friend to you, pretty lady, if you'll let him. So you want excitement here, do you? You want to be wicked, and interesting, and unfortunate, and all the rest? And you'd like young Archibald—a nice boy, that—to give you a little romance? Well, then, he shall, and tomorrow too, hot and strong, if you say the word."

Ethelinda was too flustered to speak at first, and a little afraid of the old man, for he leered so oddly and ate so fast and jerkily.

"Don't—oh, please don't!" cried a squeaky voice above him. It came from a queer little angular doll with gold-paper wings, a spangled muslin dress, and a wand with a tinsel star at the end, fastened on the wall above a picture. "You won't like it—you won't, really!"

"Don't trust him," whispered the jester. "He's a bad old man. He ruined a very promising young dancing nigger only the other day—unhinged him so he'll never hook on again."

"Ha, ha!" laughed the Sausage-Glutton, as he disposed of another sausage. "That old fellow in the peculiar coat is jealous, you know. He can't make a heroine of you, so he doesn't want anyone else to. Who cares what he says? And as for our little wooden friend up there, I should hope a dainty duchess like you isn't going to be dictated to by a low jointed creature who sets up for a fairy when she knows her sisters dance round white hats every Derby Day."

"They're not sisters; they're second cousins," squeaked the poor Dutch doll, hurt. "And they don't mean any harm; it's just high spirits. And whatever you say, I am a fairy. I had a Christmas tree of my own once; but I had to leave it—it was so expensive to keep up. Now, you take my advice, my dear," she added to Ethelinda. "Don't listen to him. He'd give all his sausages to see you in trouble, but he can't do anything unless you give him leave."

But of course it would have been absurd for Ethelinda to take advice from a flat-headed twopenny doll and a flabby jester from the Lowther Arcade. "My good creatures," she said, "you mean well, no doubt, but pray leave this gentleman and me to settle our affairs. Can you really get Master Archie to notice me, sir?" she asked the figure on the clock.

"I can, my loveliest," he said.

"And will it be exciting," she asked, "and romantic, and—and just a little wicked too?"

"You shall be the wickedest heroine in any nursery in the world," he replied. "Oh, how you will enjoy yourself!"

"Then I accept," said Ethelinda. "I put myself in your hands. I leave everything to you."

"That's right!" cried the Sausage-Glutton. "That's a brave little beauty. It's a bargain, then? Tomorrow afternoon the fun begins, and then—my springs and wheels—what a time you'll have! He, he! You watch out for Archibald!"

Then he trembled as the clock struck twelve, and went back to his sausages without another word, while Ethelinda gave herself up to delighted anticipations of the adventures about to happen at last.

But the jester felt uneasy. He was sure the old Sausage-Glutton's amiability hid some trickery.

"You're a fairy, aren't you?" he whispered to the Dutch doll. "Can't you help her?"

"No," she said sulkily, "and if I could, I wouldn't. She chose to put herself in his power, and whatever happens serves her right. I don't know what he plans, and I can't stop him. Still, if I can't help her, I can help you. You may need it, because he'll be angry with you for warning her."

"But he never got my permission to meddle with me," said the jester.

"Are you stuffed with sawdust or bran?" asked the fairy.

"Neither," he said. "Only bellows and wire. Why?"

"I feared so. It's only dolls with sawdust or bran inside that he can't control without their consent. He can do anything he wants with you. But he shan't harm you this time if you're careful—for I'll grant you your very next wish. Only be careful what you wish for; don't waste it. Wait until things are at their worst."

"Thank you," he said. "I don't mind for myself, but I'd like to protect her. I'll remember."

Then he leaned toward Ethelinda and whispered, "You didn't believe what the old man on the clock said about me, did you? I'm not jealous—I'm just a poor jester, and you're a grand lady. But let me sit by you sometimes and talk to you in the evenings like tonight, won't you?"

But Ethelinda, though she heard him plainly, pretended to be fast asleep. It didn't matter to her whether he was jealous or not.

Winifred sat alone in her nursery the next afternoon, trying to play. She was a dear little girl of about nine, with long, soft brown hair, a straight little nose, and brown eyes that had a wistful, dissatisfied look—for, somehow, she couldn't get along with her dolls at all.

The jester wasn't handsome enough for her; his eyes were put in carelessly, his face had a strange look, and he was limp and unmanageable. She always told herself she kept him "for the sake of the giver," poor clumsy, good-hearted Martha, the housemaid who had left in disgrace and given him as a parting gift. But one may as well not be cared for as be liked in that roundabout way.

And Ethelinda, beautiful and fashionable as she was, wasn't friendly. Winifred could never get close to her; she felt almost afraid to treat her like a little child, to nurse her, for Ethelinda seemed grown-up and knew more than she did.

She sat looking at Ethelinda, who stared back coldly and distantly, as if half remembering meeting her somewhere. There was a fixed smile on her red lips that seemed false and rather contemptuous to poor lonely Winifred, who thought it hard that her own doll should despise her.

The jester's smile was amiable enough, though meaningless, but nobody cared about him as he lay unnoticed on his back in the corner.

You wouldn't have guessed from their faces, but both dolls were very excited. Each was thinking about the Sausage-Glutton and his vague promises, wondering if and how they would be fulfilled.

The wooden magician went on bolting his sausages on top of the clock as usual, but the jester fancied his cunning eyes rolled toward them with a peculiar leer as a cheerful whistle sounded on the stairs.

A moment later, a lively brown-faced boy in a sailor suit stuck his head in the door. "Hullo, Winnie," he said. "Are you all alone?"

"Nurse has gone downstairs," said Winnie plaintively. "I've got the dolls, but it's dull here. Can't you come and help me play, Archie?"

Archie had been skating all morning and couldn't settle down to his books, so he'd come up looking for amusement. Though he was a boy, he sometimes unbent enough to join her games, finding his own peculiar fun in them.

But of course he had to make it seem a favor. "I've other things to do," he said. "And you always make a fuss when I play with you. Look at last time!"

"Ah, but then you were a slave-driver and made me sell you my old black Dinah, then you tied her up and whipped her. I didn't like that! But if you stay this time, I won't mind what else you do!"

For Archie had a way of making the dolls go through exciting adventures, which Winifred watched with fearful fascination.

"Girls don't know how to play with dolls," said Archie. "I could get more fun out of that dolls' house than a dozen girls. But I tell you what: if you let me do exactly what I like and don't interfere except when I say, I might stay a while—not long, though."

"I promise," said Winifred, "if you won't break anything. I'll do what you say."

"Very well, then. Let's see who you've got. I say, who's this in the fancy dress?" He was pointing to Ethelinda, whose brain tingled with excitement. "He's noticed me at last," she thought. "I wonder if I can make him fall desperately in love with me!" She turned her big blue eyes full on him. "Ah, if I could only speak—but perhaps soon. I'm sure the romance is beginning!"

"That's Ethelinda, Archie—isn't she pretty?"

"I've seen uglier," he said. "She looks like that Eve de Something we saw at Drury Lane. We'll use her, and that fellow in the fool's dress too—we might need him. Now we're ready."

"What are you going to do?"

"Leave that to me. I have an idea—much better than your silly tea parties."

"Why doesn't he tell that child to go?" thought Ethelinda. "We don't need her!"

"Now listen, Winifred," said Archie. "This is the game. You're a beautiful queen—but sit up and take your finger out of your mouth; queens don't do that. And I'm the king. This is your maid of honor, the beautiful Lady Ethelinda, see?"

"Go on, Archie; I see," cried Winifred. "I like it so far."

"I think I ought to have been the queen!" Ethelinda said to herself.

"Now," said the boy, "I'll tell you something. This maid of honor doesn't like you—don't deny it; I'm telling this, and I know. Watch her carefully. Don't you see that look on her face as if she didn't think much of you?"

"How clever he is," thought Ethelinda. "He knows exactly how I feel!"

"Do you really think so, Archie?" said Winifred. "I feared that before you came."

"That's it. Watch for a glare in her eye when I pay you attention. (How does Your Majesty do? Well, I hope.) There, didn't you see it? That's jealousy. She hates you!"

"I'm sure she doesn't," protested Winifred.

"Oh, well, if you know better than I, you can finish it yourself. I'm going."

"No, no, stay. I like it. I'll be good!"

"Don't interrupt again. Now the truth is, she'd like to be queen herself. She's ambitious. And she thinks that if you were out of the way, I'd ask her to be the next queen!"

Winifred was speechless at the idea of her doll's wickedness. Archie took Ethelinda by the waist and brought her near the queen. "Now see how sly she is. She's going to ask permission to go out. Listen: 'Please, Your Gracious Majesty, may I go out for a while?'"

"This is even better than speaking myself," thought Ethelinda. "He can speak for me, and I believe I shall be quite wicked soon."

"Do I answer her, Archie?" Winifred asked nervously.

"Of course. Go on; don't be silly. Give her leave."

"Certainly, Ethelinda, if you wish," said Winifred, trying to imitate her mother's manner. "But I'd like you in for prayers."

"A maid of honor isn't a housemaid, you know," said Archie. "But never mind—she's off. You don't see where she goes, of course."

"Yes I do," said Winifred.

"Ah, but not in the game. She goes to the apothecary's—here's the apothecary." He grabbed the jester, who thought helplessly, "I'm being dragged in now; I wish he'd leave me alone." Archie continued, "She says, 'Please, Mr. Apothecary, I want some arsenic to kill the royal black beetles. A pound or two will be plenty.' So he takes down a jar"—here Archie fetched a large bottle of citrate of magnesia—"and weighs it out, wraps it, and gives it to her, saying, 'Be very careful, my lady. The dose is one pinch in a teaspoonful of treacle per beetle, at night. Don't leave it around.' So Lady Ethelinda takes it home and hides it."

"I've bought poison," thought Ethelinda, delighted. "I am a wicked doll! How convenient to have it done for me! I hope he'll make me give Winifred some, to get her out of the way, and have the romance to ourselves."

"Now you and I," continued Archie, "know nothing of this. But one day the court jester—" ("I was the apothecary a moment ago," thought the jester; "this is confusing!") "—the jester comes up, looking grave, and tells on her. He's angry because she never has anything to do with him, and he says he saw her folding a powder and writing on it, and he thought I should know." ("This is awful," thought the jester. "What will Ethelinda think of me? And what's come over her? It's all that Sausage-Glutton's doing—and I can't help myself!")

"Well, I'm surprised, of course," said Archie. "Any king would be. But I wait, and one day when she's gone out, the jester and I break open her desk."

"Oh Archie," objected the Queen, "isn't that mean?"

"Look here, Winnie, I can't have this. For a gentleman it might be mean, but I'm a king and have the right. And it's for your sake. Besides, the jester does it; I only watch. And by-and-by," he said, scribbling on paper, "he finds this!" He handed Winifred a folded note, on which she read with real horror: "'Poisin for the Queen.'"

"There, what do you think?" he asked. "Looks bad, doesn't it?"

"Perhaps," said the Queen weakly, "perhaps it was only a joke?"

"A joke? Now the guard arrests her." He used the bewildered jester again. "Do you want to question the prisoner? You can."

"You—you didn't really mean to poison me, did you, Ethelinda?" said Winifred, taking it all very seriously. "Archie, make her say something!"

"Why don't you answer the Queen?" demanded Archie. "She won't speak; she just grins—she's hardened. Only one thing would make her confess," he added, "the torture. I could make a nice rack, Winnie, if you don't mind."

"I won't have her tortured," said the Queen firmly. "I believe she's sorry and wants forgiveness."

"Then why doesn't she say so? Look, this is serious. It's high treason, and she'll have to be tried."

"But I don't want her tried," said Winifred.

"Very well, then I'll go read. The best part was coming, but if you don't care, I don't."

"Little idiot!" thought Ethelinda angrily. "She'll ruin everything; every heroine must be tried!"

But Winnie gave in, as usual. "Well, she shall be tried if you think best, Archie. It won't hurt her, will it?"

"Of course not. Now for the trial: here's the court, and here's the judge's bench"—he built it with books and bricks—"and here's the dock. Put Lady What's-her-name inside. We'll skip the jury, but we need a judge. Oh, this fellow will do!" He seized the jester and set him on the bench. The jester was more puzzled than ever. "Now I'm a judge," he thought. "I'll have to try her. But I'm glad—I'll acquit her!"

But he soon found he had no say except what Archie lent him.

"Archie," said Winifred, trying to save her, "can a jester be a judge?"

"Why not? Judges make jokes sometimes—Papa says so, and he's a barrister."

"But this one doesn't make real jokes!"

"Who asked him to? Now, Lady Ethelinda, you're charged with high treason and attempting to poison Her Majesty Queen Winifred by putting arsenic in her tea. Guilty or not guilty? Speak up!"

"Not guilty!" said Winifred quickly, hoping to end it. "There, Archie, she spoke!"

"Now you've done it," Archie said triumphantly. "If she'd confessed, we might have shown mercy. Now we must prove it, and if we do, I'm sorry for her."

"Let her say 'Guilty, and she won't do it again,'" suggested Winifred.

"Too late for that. We must prove it."

"But how?"

"Wait. I've been in court with Papa and seen him prove things. First, we need the apothecary who sold the poison—but he's the judge now. That won't do."

"Then you can't prove it!" cried the Queen.

"One would think you liked being poisoned," said Archie.

"I like magnesia; it's medicine, not poison."

"It's arsenic now. But she won't get off. I'll call the apothecary's assistant—this brick will be him. He confirms it. Now for the sentence! Put a penwiper on the judge's head, Winnie; it's more solemn."

"What's a sentence?" asked Winifred.

"You'll see. The judge says: 'Lady Ethelinda, you've been found guilty. You put arsenic in your queen's tea.'"

"But I haven't had tea yet!" protested the Queen.

"Her Majesty must not interrupt the judge. As I was saying, we must cut off your head!"

"What have I done?" thought the jester. "She'll think I'm serious and never forgive me!"

But Ethelinda was delighted, for no heroine had ever been in such a romantic predicament. "Of course," she thought, "it will all work out in the end; it always does."

Winifred, however, was terrified. "Archie, she mustn't have her head cut off!"

"It'll be fine if you let me handle it. You promised not to interrupt."

Archie's head was full of executions, having just read 'The Tower of London.' He'd been leading to this from the start and meant to have his way. But first he toyed with Winnie's feelings—a bad habit. He didn't realize how deeply she felt things or that she forgot it was pretend. He liked making her cry.

"Winnie," he began dolefully, "she's in prison now, and I think her heart is softening. She wants to see you. You won't refuse her last request, will you?"

"As if I could!" cried Winifred, full of compassion.

"This is the last meeting. Ethelinda says: 'My dear kind mistress, whom I loved before I became wicked, I couldn't die without your forgiveness. Let your poor maid of honor kiss your hand once more. Forgive me about the arsenic.' Now, Winnie!"

"I—I can't, Archie!" sobbed Winifred.

"If you don't, she'll think you're still angry. Listen, she says: 'Won't you say one word, Your Majesty? When I'm gone and rotting in my grave, it'll be too late, and you'll be sorry. This is my last request!'"

"Oh, Ethelinda, darling, don't!" implored the Queen. "I must forgive her now!"

"Yes, forgive her," said Archie approvingly. "Queens shouldn't bear grudges."

"It's all right," said Winifred, drying her eyes. "She's good again. Now let's play something not so horrid!"

"When we finish this, we will. But there's still the execution. It's the fatal day; the scaffold is built"—he made a platform and block from books—"the sheriff stands guard"—he propped the poor jester against a workbox—"and the criminal is brought out amid the groans of the populace. Groan, Winnie!"

"I won't groan," said Winnie. "I'm a queen, not a mob. Archie, you won't really cut her head off?"

"Don't be silly. The ending is a surprise—maybe a pardon arrives in time. Just wait."

"Now I'm not the king; I'm the headsman. And, Winnie, perhaps you'd better hide your face—a nice queen wouldn't watch."

So Winifred hid her eyes, glad to avoid even the pretense, wishing the game would end.

But Archie was just starting to enjoy himself. "The wretched woman," he announced, "is led tottering to the block, and the headsman respectfully cuts off some of her hair so it won't get in the way."

At that, Archie—wanting everything realistic—actually snipped off a good part of Ethelinda's golden curls. Luckily, Winifred was too trusting to peek, and she kept her eyes shut while Archie searched for something: a sword in a red tin scabbard. He'd found it at last.

Until then, Archie hadn't been sure what he'd do. He'd thought a light tap might be enough, but now he imagined how easily the blade would slice through Ethelinda's soft wax neck, and how he could hold up her head by the hair, like an executioner in a picture, saying, "This is the head of a traitress!" He knew it would get him in trouble, and that it was mean to deceive his trusting cousin, but he didn't stop. He'd already cut her hair; why not her head too?

Soon Ethelinda lay helpless, hands tied behind her, her shorn head on a thick book, while Archie stood over her with a cruel gleam and a flashing sword.

"I should wear a mask," he said, "so I won't be recognized. I'll tie a handkerchief over my eyes." He did, then measured his aim with practice swings.

Ethelinda was terrified. Being a heroine wasn't as pleasant as she'd hoped. She'd already lost most of her hair; would she lose her head too? Too late, she saw her folly, that even make-believe tea parties were better. She longed for Winifred's safe arms.

But Winifred's eyes were shut tight. Ethelinda couldn't move or cry out. And all the while, the wicked Sausage-Glutton kept swallowing sausages as if he had nothing to do with it.

The jester was more alarmed than Ethelinda herself. He knew Winifred was being deceived, and no pardon would come.

In another moment, this beautiful doll would be gone forever. And the bitterest part was that he, confused as he was, had somehow played a part (several parts) in her downfall. The poor jester fancied her eyes held scorn and reproach as she looked at him from the block.

"What will I do without her?" he thought. "I wish I could take her place!"

Archie lingered so long that Winifred lost patience. "Hurry, Archie," she said with a shudder. "I can't bear it. I'll have to open my eyes!"

"Just adjusting my mask. Now I'm ready. One, two, three!"

There was a whistling swish, a heavy thud, and a flop.

Then Archie rushed to the door. "I—I couldn't help it, Winnie," he stammered as she uncovered her eyes. "I'll buy you another, prettier. And you said she didn't like you!"

"Stop, Archie! Did you actually cut off her head?"

"Didn't I?" he said stupidly. "I cut something's head off; I saw it fall."

"You meant to! And oh—it's the jester! I wouldn't have minded so much if you hadn't meant it for Ethelinda! And you cut off her beautiful hair—I let you! She's not pretty now. It's a shame!"

Ethelinda had escaped, and this is how:

The jester had been so worried about her that he'd forgotten the fairy's promise to grant his next wish, but she, being a fairy, had to keep it. If he'd thought, he could have wished Ethelinda safe without harm to himself, but he'd wished "to take her place," and the fairy was bound.

So the little shake Winifred gave the table made Ethelinda roll off the platform, and the jester, never steady on his legs, fell forward exactly where she'd lain. The handkerchief over his face (and perhaps the fairy) kept Archie from noticing the swap.

Archie tried to defend himself. "I think she looks better with short hair. And don't you see, this was the jester's plot—Ethelinda was innocent, and he's caught in his own trap. That's the surprise!"

"I don't believe you," said Winifred. "You had no right to cut even my jester's head, but you meant worse! I won't play with you anymore, and I won't forgive you until you go back to school!"

"But Winnie—"

"Go away!" she stamped. "Leave me alone!"

So Archie left, not sorry that the accident had prevented his worse deed, and confident that Winnie would forgive him before long. Winifred, alone, sobbed over Ethelinda's shorn locks and quite forgot the jester's split head on the floor.

That night, Ethelinda had the chest of drawers all to herself, and the Sausage-Glutton grinned at her from the mantelpiece, disappointed at how his plans had turned out.

"Good evening," he sneered. "How are you after your little romance? Master Archie nearly cut your head off—but I couldn't allow that. I hope you enjoyed yourself?"

"At first," said Ethelinda. "But I got frightened when it seemed it wouldn't end nicely. Did you notice how wickedly that jester behaved? It's a warning not to associate with such persons. Something about him made me shudder from the start! I've heard terrible things about Lowther Arcade dolls. Well, he got what he deserved—and that's a comfort. But this has upset me, and I want no more romance. It's so hard on one's hair!"

The Dutch fairy doll heard and was angry, for she knew why the jester had come to a tragic end. "Should I tell her and make her sorry? Would she believe me? Perhaps not, but I must speak out sometime—only I'll wait until the clock stops. I can't bear her talking about that poor jester so."

But it didn't matter to the jester, who could no longer hear or feel, for they'd thrown him into the dustbin, where, unless the dustcart has come since, he lies still.