Magic Elizabeth by Norma Kassirer

scolded her mother. “Now come along before you fall asleep again!” And they went out of the room, across the flower-covered carpet of the upstairs hall, and off down the stairs, while the grandfather clock ticked and ticked. Sally’s dream faded away to nothing as they went down and down. They passed the stone angel, holding aloft her little flaming lamp (Sally touched her cold foot and, as always, a pleasant shiver went through her as she did so, as if the angel, in some secret way, had spoken to her); they pushed through the bead curtains and on through the parlor, where the gaslights on the walls sputtered a pleasant little tune to the faint accompaniment of the melodeon, which whispered its usual greeting at their approach. In almost every room of the house a fire purred like a living thing. And all around, the snow was falling, softly and softly, upon the garden and upon the roof, and no doubt uponthe little schoolhouse down the road and the church and the big red barn. It was piling up along the edges of the windows; and far off beyond the muffling snow, there was the faintest tinkle of sleigh bells. How cozy and pleasant it was in here, with the fire crackling in the fireplaces, throwing leaping shadows on the walls, and the little gas flames winking at her, and how lovely it was to be hurrying toward a surprise. “What do you suppose it is, Elizabeth?” she asked, hugging the little doll. But Elizabeth, if she knew, did not say.
    “Will I like it?” she asked her mother.
    “I think so,” said her mother. “I rather think you will.”
    “Is it something to eat? Is it hot chocolate?”
    But her mother only laughed and hurried her on through the dining room, her long skirts whispering over the floor as she moved. As they passed the round dining-room table, Sally caught a glimpse of herself reflected in its shining surface, and she wondered, with just the edge of her mind, what if the girl in there was a real girl and she was just a reflection?
    “What funny things I’m thinking tonight,” she said to Elizabeth.
    By then they were pushing through the door into the warm kitchen.
    The front of the black iron wood stove glowedred. The comfortable smell of simmering soup swirled about the kitchen from the iron kettle at the back of the stove. A tremendous crackling and crashing of logs issued from the flaming throat of the stone fireplace. If the smaller fireplaces purred, this one roared. The ticking of the little church clock on the mantel could not even be heard.
    Sally’s father was kneeling on the hearth, his back to her. He was bending over something that she could not see.
    “Where is the surprise?” she asked her mother eagerly. But her mother did not answer at once.
    White-haired Aunt Tryphone sat in her rocking chair, her wrinkled old hands quiet upon the knitting in her lap, her gold-framed spectacles slipping down her nose. She was gazing down at the hearth, a smile playing about the corners of her mouth. Plump Mrs. Perkins was holding Sally’s baby brother Bub in her arms. His pink fists were waving in the firelight, his eyes were closed tight, and his mouth was screwed up and making the odd bubbling sounds for which he was famous. Mrs. Perkins was also looking at the hearth. “The little dears,” she was saying in a happy trembly sort of voice. “Just see the little dears.”
    “Here she is,” announced Sally’s mother as they approached the group around the fire. “I’ve brought Sally down to see.”

    “But where is the surprise?” Sally asked again, feeling as if she would burst into sparks like the fireplace logs if they did not tell her soon.
    Sally’s father turned his head and grinned at her over his curly black beard. Aunt Tryphone said in her shaky old voice, pointing a trembling finger at the hearth, “It’s right there. Just see, Sally dear.”
    Mrs. Perkins said, “The little dear tiny things.”
    “My dear papa once spoke with Mr. Washington,” said Aunt Tryphone.