It would be easier to give up breathing than to decide what is the most beautiful aspect of this book. Is it the power of Elizabeti’s imagination? Is it the universality of a child’s love for her doll? Is it the illustrations that incorporate so many lovely fabrics as to convince us that even a child whose only plaything is a rock is still surrounded by riches? Or is it love between mother and child, expressed in the book’s sweet conclusion—two sentences that we dare anyone to read and not sigh with pleasure at their rightness.