That was an old tragedy, though a sickening one at the time.

The doll had been my Christmas offering to the woman child, and in the dusk of that joyous day my namesake had craved of its proud mother the boon of holding it a little while.

Relinquished trustingly to him, he had sat with it by a cheerful fire--without evil intent, I do truly believe.

Surely it was by chance that he found its waxen face softening under the stove's glow--and has Heaven affixed nails to any boy of seven that, in a dusky room at a quiet moment, would have behaved with more restraint?
I trow not.

One surprised dig and all was lost.