A sudden cloud of rage and disappointment came over the poor
child's face: she threw her cap on the floor and stamped on it; she tore
off her necklace and writhed herself out of her big flowered gown, and
running to Drollo, nearly strangled him in her fierce efforts to drag
off his shell chains. Then, a half-dressed, wild little phantom, she
seized me by the skirts and dragged me toward the looking-glass. "You
are not pretty either," she cried. "Look at yourself! look at yourself!"
"I did not mean to laugh at you, Felipa," I said gently: "I would not
laugh at any one; and it is true I am not pretty, as you say. I can
never be pretty, child; but if you will try to be more gentle, I could
teach you how to dress yourself so that no one would laugh at you again.
I could make you a little bright-barred skirt and a scarlet bodice: you
could help, and that would teach you to sew. But a little girl who wants
all this done for her must be quiet and good."
"I am good," said Felipa--"as good as everything."
The tears still stood in her eyes, but her anger was forgotten: she
improvised a sort of dance around my room, followed by Drollo dragging
his twisted chain, stepping on it with his big feet, and finally winding
himself up into a knot around the chair-legs.
"Couldn't we make Drollo something too? dear old Drollo!" said Felipa,
going to him and squeezing him in an enthusiastic embrace. I used to
wonder how his poor ribs stood it: Felipa used him as a safety-valve for
her impetuous feelings.
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