There was a large gathering in celebration
of the historic event and Waitstill crept down the hill with her
homemade rag doll in her arms. She stood on the outskirts of the
crowd, a silent, absorbed little figure clad in a shabby woollen
coat, with a blue knit hood framing her rosy face. Deborah, her
beloved, her only doll, was tightly clasped in her arms, for
Debby, like her parent, had few pleasures and must not be denied
so great a one as this. Suddenly, one of the thoughtless young
scamps in the group, wishing to create a new sensation and add to
the general excitement, caught the doll from the child's arms,
and running forward with a loud war-whoop, flung it into the
flames. Waitstill did not lose an instant. She gave a scream Of
anguish, and without giving any warning of her intentions,
probably without realizing them herself, she dashed through the
little crowd into the bonfire and snatched her cherished
offspring from the burning pile. The whole thing was over in the
twinkling of an eye, for Uncle Bart was as quick as the child and
dragged her out of the imminent danger with no worse harm done
than a good scorching.
He led the little creature up the hill to explain matters and
protect her from a scolding.
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