Five weeks later, on a sweltering afternoon, Ben Pentland, the mailman, arrived at the school. Christy was writing addition problems on the blackboard when he peered in the doorway.
“United States mail, at your service!” he called.
“Thank you, Mr. Pentland,” Christy said. “Why don’t you just leave the letters on my desk?”
“Can’t do that, Miz Christy,” he said politely.
“Why is that?”
“Mail ain’t for you.” Mr. Pentland grinned. He held up a box, wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine.
The children murmured excitedly. “Who’s it for, Mr. Pentland?” Ruby Mae asked.
Mr. Pentland pretended to study the box at great length. “Why, it says here it’s for none other than a certain Miss Mountie O’Teale!”
Everyone turned to stare at little Mountie. Her face was white. Her mouth hung slightly open. She gulped.
“Can’t be,” said one of the older boys. “Who would send a package to Mountie?”
“Let’s just see about that,” said Mr. Pentland. Again he studied the package. “Return address is kind of queer. Says ‘Care of P.C., Cutter Gap, Tennessee.’ Mountie, you know anybody with the initials P.C.?”
Mountie shook her head, bewildered.
With great flair, Mr. Pentland placed the package on Mountie’s desk. “I guess you’ll be a-wantin’ to open it,” he said.
Mountie barely managed a nod. She was trembling with excitement.
“Here, Mountie,” Christy said. “I’ll cut the strings with my scissors. Then you can open the rest.”
When the twine was off, Mountie set about opening the package. The children gathered around in rapt attention. Christie noticed Bessie, Ruby Mae, and Clara standing off to the side, whispering to themselves.
Slowly, carefully, Mountie tore off the brown paper. Inside was a wooden box. George had to help her yank it open.
Layers of white paper came next. Mountie pulled off each piece as if the paper itself were a gift.
Suddenly, she gasped. Her hand flew to her mouth. For several moments, she didn’t move.
“Go on, Mountie,” George urged gently.
With the utmost tenderness, Mountie reached into the box and lifted a beautiful doll into her thin arms. She stroked the shiny curls. She touched the lace-trimmed gown. Then she held the doll to her heart and kissed her.
Tears rolled down her face. “It’s her,” she whispered. “My ’maginary dolly.”
Christy wiped away a tear. She heard quiet sobs behind her and turned.
Bessie and Clara and Ruby Mae were grinning from ear to ear, their own faces damp with tears.
Today, Christy thought proudly, they really are princesses.