She rented third floor room That opened on an airshaft full Of cooking smells and gloom.
She worked in philanthropic man's Well-known department store;Cashiered in basement, hot and close, For forty years or more.
Each night when she came home she'd stand A moment in the hall, Before she went into her room With low and tender call.
And often I would hear her voice Repeat a childish prayer;Or read some old, old fairy tale Of Princess, grand and fair.
One night I went to visit her And spied, in little chair A great wax doll, in dainty dress, And curls of flaxen hair.
I praised the doll; its prettiness;
Miss Doane said, "I'm alone.
She comforts me. I wanted so A child to call my own."Each night I heard her softly sing A childish lullaby;But once, and just before she died, I heard her cry and cry!
