Chapter II: Part 2

"Yes. You all know, I daresay, that swallows come to live here in summer, and then on a day near the middle of September they all fly back again to warmer climes. No matter what they are doing, when the call comes,—that mysterious call which only they understand,—off they go, and we see them no more till the next April.

"You know how the swallows make nests for themselves up under the eaves, and I have heard they sometimes bring up two broods in the same year.

"Now it so happened that a year or so ago, one pair had their second brood rather late in the season. And before the poor little nestlings were able to fly, the call came to the swallows to go south.

"What do you think the little father and mother did? They left their little nestlings to starve, and flew away themselves to the warm countries! When the blacksmith came to mend the gutter the next spring, he found the little dead things huddled together in the forsaken nest. And when I heard it, I underlined that text in my Bible which I have always loved, that speaks of God's love as contrasted with a mother's love, great as that is—'Yea, they "may" forget, yet will I not forget thee.'"

There was a moment's pause in the large circle, and then Margaret looked up from hugging her baby, and said softly,—

"That is a very sad story, Grandmamma."

"Yes, it is," answered Mrs. Forde, taking her great-granddaughter's tiny hand, and smoothing it up and down tenderly, "but it is well for us to be reminded sometimes!"

"Reminded?" asked Margaret.

"That God says, '"I" have loved thee with an "everlasting" love!'"

Then there was a stir in the circle. Claude and the Reigate boys went back to their castle, while the bare mention of the blacksmith had been quite enough for some of the children. It was still light, so ever so many of them asked permission to pay a visit to the forge before going home.

"Good afternoon, Grandfather!" said Jack, roguishly. "It will be almost evening before we come back!"

The little ones ran to the wall to watch the party on its way to the village, only wishing they had been fortunate enough to be allowed to go with them; for after all, what is so entrancing to the childish mind as an unhindered peep into a forge?

SUCH A HAPPY EVENING.

————

"AUNTIE, Auntie! The dew is falling," called Frank, coming round the corner of the house to discover his Aunt Rachel taking a few minutes' rest with her favourite nephew by her side, amusing him with a picture book, and telling him such thrilling stories that he sat entranced.

She had found him just now in great tribulation, for her dog Frisky, unused to children, had taken a particular fancy to the darling of one of the families assembled to celebrate the Golden Wedding-day, and had, true to his name, frisked round him in the most friendly manner.

Little Kenneth, who had no dog at home, did not take these attentions at all in a friendly spirit. He felt sure Frisky was bent on doing him some serious mischief, and would end up with demolishing him! Poor little Kenneth!

His mournful cry brought Aunt Rachel to his side very quickly. All day she had done little else than hover round among the little ones, making straight all that might have gone crooked, making smooth anything that might have been rough.

She had said that morning to her parents, as they sat at breakfast talking over the arrangements for the grand day—"Mother! I shall leave all the food to Charlotte's care. 'I' shall devote myself to the little ones."

Charlotte was Mr. Forde's other home-daughter. She laughed now a little, and said to her sister,—

"Pray, who is to attend to the elder guests, as you have told me off to the 'food' all day. I hope you do not put me down as specially greedy?"

"Not at all. I consider myself rather greedy to 'bag' the children,—they are the best share by half! But I thought the older people suited you best, Charlotte?"

"Oh! I don't mind," she said. "But as to the food, with all our elaborate preparations, and so many maids to carry all out, I do not think I need concern myself about that. I'll amuse the older folks."

Thus, it was settled. Happily for everybody, the preparations had been most complete, and the carrying out of them perfect; so that Charlotte had quite a free mind to give to the entertainment of her sisters and brothers.

Aunt Rachel had been helping some of the little ones to dig in a corner of the pretty garden, where Mr. Forde had ordered a load of sand to be deposited. Here, after tea, she enticed those who seemed a little tired of the hay.

"The big boys are so rough," she had heard one of them say, as she smoothed the hay out of her hair, and straightened her rumpled dress. "I don't like playing with big cousins at all."

The sand had proved a most delightful exchange from the rather overpowering play of the older children, and while some of them dug with great energy, the rest of the little ones wandered a little further on in the garden, to a plane which was called by Aunt Rachel "the wilderness,"—a corner where things were left to grow as they liked, with only such cutting and training as was judiciously invisible to ordinary eyes.

What a happy time it was for all of them, and not least for Aunt Rachel, who often declared it was impossible for her to have too much of children! Margaret, one of her elder nieces, married but a short year and a half ago, with a precious treasure of her own, quite agreed with her aunt that at any rate, she could never have too much of her little Daisy!

While the sun was still bright, this indefatigable little mother was sure that her baby was sleepy, and leaving the happy party in the hay-field, she made her way across the lawns and carried her darling into the house.

As she passed through the drawing-room, she met one of her cousins, a little girl named Mildred, who was always known as one of the greatest baby-lovers ever seen.

"Oh, Margaret!" she exclaimed, springing forward. "'May' I take care of Daisy?"

"If you like," answered Margaret, feeling that she was conferring a great boon. "Just hold her while I run up to find Mary. I wonder if she has her bed ready for her!"

The cot was ready in the spare room, for Margaret was to sleep at Bickley that night. So Mildred was allowed to carry the baby up the broad easy stairs, and to superintend its undressing.

Daisy had just learned to crawl, and was placed on the floor to show Mildred the new performance, when the door was pushed open a very little, and Master Frisky walked in to see what was going on.

He did not quite like that any other four-footed animal, as he considered it, should be allowed to walk about in "his" spare room, so he laid himself down rather sulkily and considered the matter before he decided on any course of action.

Margaret and Mildred and the nurse were very much entertained, especially as Daisy had no idea of fear, and made her way steadily towards the occupant of the mat, intent on a game if possible. Frisky, however, was almost too awed at the new quadruped to move. He hung his tail as if afraid.

"Do you think he will snap at her?" said Mildred, shrinking.

"Oh, no!" answered Margaret.

But she would not risk it, so caught up her darling and placed her out of harm's way in the cot, where she was tenderly watched over by Mildred and the nurse, till she fell asleep.

"That's the first 'Good-night!'" whispered Mildred, bending over her. "Little Daisy, you are the first to say good-bye to the Golden Wedding-day!"

Then she noiselessly left the room, and went out into the still evening, listening for sounds that might guide her to some place of interest.

Merry voices came from all sides, ringing laughter; so after an instant's pause, she decided on making a visit to the hay-loft, where she found three of her cousins having a grand frolic.

On her way, she passed some of the neighbours' cottages. And there in the warm western sun, outside the door under shelter of the wall, lay the baby of the family, all clean and rosy, ready for her good-night.

By the side of her watched her little sister, amusing herself meanwhile with feeding some tame sparrows, puss looking on, but restrained from touching them by the little girl's hand; while opposite stood the eldest boy, stripping a brier of its leaves to make a stick for himself.

"How happy you look," said Mildred, and passed on towards the hay-loft.

Soon she was in the thick of the fun, hiding in the dusky corners, or climbing up and down the ladder which led to the ground,—a pastime which all found particularly delightful, because there was just a little danger of slipping!

Meanwhile, two more of the cousins were having another frolic somewhere else. Aunt Charlotte had been coaxed to let them into her studio, and in consideration of the interest of the day, to actually allow one of her brushes to be used on one of her canvases!

"You've been a mighty long time!" remarked Eddie, who was standing patiently on the mat, acting as a model for one of his cousins.

"Well, you can go!" she answered condescendingly. "I've got your hair exactly now, and your nose! I've made you quite handsome, Eddie!"

"Do you call that like me?" asked Eddie.

"Exactly! Don't you?"

But Eddie did not wait to argue the point. Finding himself let off, he bounded away; for however pleasant it may be to paint, it is not such an enviable thing to be painted, especially when there are such attractions elsewhere as are to be found on Golden Wedding-days.

Jack, finding nothing particular to do of an exciting nature, determined to amuse himself by climbing one of the high trees near the wall which separated his grandfather's grounds from the gardens of some cottages.

He had been as far as he thought prudent, and for once had really kept within reasonable bounds, and now was descending (as he could not indulge himself by going higher!) when he saw a woman come out of the nearest cottage door, look quickly about, wring her hands, and call out in a very despairing tone, "Baby! Baby!"

"What's the matter?" called Jack's blunt voice from the midst of his leafy shade.

The woman stopped short, looked about in every direction, and then burst into tears.

"What's the matter?" called Jack again. "I'm up here in the tree."

He shook the branches, and she looked up.

"What ails you?" asked Jack, for the woman's face was woebegone.

"Why, the baby! Oh, do, my dear young master, come down and help me find her. She's all I have now, and my heart will break!"

Jack could not make it out, but he descended to the wall, and then in a manner best known to himself, let himself down on the other side, and stood by the woman, again asking, "But 'what' have you lost? You can't lose a baby like that. She must be somewhere."

His steady courageous tone quieted the mother's nervous apprehension a little. To her mind, nothing was easier than to lose her baby.

"Where was she?" asked Jack.

"Why, here," exclaimed the woman eagerly. "I'd been leading her about the kitchen; she's just begun to walk a bit, and we was as happy as could be. And then I put on her bonnet to take her out for a bit, and I ran upstairs to get my own things. I wasn't a minute, I do assure you, sir. And when I came down, the door was open and she was gone!"

"She isn't far, I'll be bound," said Jack reassuringly. "I'll just run round and have a look about."

"But you see it's getting dark," said the mother despairingly, "and if I lose her—"

She threw her apron over her head and sobbed aloud.

"Oh, come," said Jack, "you're wasting the time. You go that way, and I'll go this. She can't be far, and we'll call her."

He ran off as he spoke, turning up the leafy lane with its shade of overhanging trees. While the child's mother, wiping her eyes, which were still almost blinded with tears, went in the direction Jack had pointed out, glad to have any advice to follow.

The fact was the baby, a little independent morsel of humanity, finding that she was arrayed in outdoor garments, thought the most natural thing was to take a walk. It did not occur to her that she should wait for her mother, it rather occurred to her that it would be a fine thing to go without her mother.

The door was fortunately ajar, and a touch of her tiny fingers pushed it open sufficiently to let her small form through. She trotted down the little garden, went out into the lane, looked this way and that, and finally turned in at the little gate which led into Aunt Rachel's wilderness.

A lonely wilderness now, for the children had left the dewy grass, and were collecting indoors preparatory to going home.

So Jack ran past the little wanderer and overshot the mark, as so many people do in this life. His fleet legs carried him over so far down the lane, till his good sense told him that no baby feet could have trotted as far as that in the few moments which must have elapsed between the child having gone out and his beginning to search.

As he slowly retraced his steps, alternately calling "Baby!" and listening attentively, he heard a very mournful little voice wailing dolefully, somewhere very near.

To his renewed calls of "Baby," no answer was made, but to his joy, the crying stopped.

Then he was sorry it had stopped, for now he had no guide to the baby's whereabouts.

He looked up at the fence and recognised the particular pattern of his grandfather's palings. He gave a spring over the little ditch, clambered up the flowery bank, no matter how many nettles and thorns were in his way, and grasping the top of the tall fence, peeped over.

There, in the midst of Aunt Rachel's wilderness, sat the little lost wanderer!

It did not take Jack a moment to clamber over the palings and to run up to the little sorrowful baby.

His most gentle soothing, however, availed nothing to assuage her grief. So Jack lifted her up, took her by the hand, and led her toddling steps out at the door by which she had entered.

Here they almost ran up against her mother.

"Oh, sir!" she said, gratefully, but no more, for such a hugging and kissing as went on completely stopped her flow of eloquence, for which Jack was not sorry.

At any rate, the baby had left off crying,—that was one good thing.

"Come in, do, sir!" exclaimed the woman, throwing open the cottage door. "I feel I can never thank you enough."

"Oh! I did not do much," said Jack. "You'd have found her right enough yourself, if you hadn't been so frightened. She was close by all the time."

"Ah! Well, young sir, I daresay you are right, but I've had such trials that I'm afraid I ain't always as sensible as I might be."

She seemed to expect Jack to inquire about her trials.

And though he was longing to get back to his cousins, with ready good humour, he asked,—

"Have you had such trials then?"

"Me, sir?" she asked, astonished, as if any one could not have heard her story.

Jack nodded.

"Why, sir, I married a widower, that's his boy as minds your grandfather's cows, and I had one child of my own—such a beautiful boy! One day he was taken ill, I don't know how it was, the doctor said it must have been croup. Anyway, I saw he was poorly, and I took him down to the doctor's, but he was out, and it was a bitter day, that it was. So I went home again, and for all I could do, the baby got worse. George went and tried everywhere to find the doctor, but he'd been sent for somewheres at a distance, and wasn't expected home till morning. Long before that the life had gone out of my baby, and he lay cold and stiff. If only the doctor had been at home, I shouldn't have lost him!"

She spoke bitterly, and Jack stood still, wondering what to say, for he did not like to leave the woman uncomforted, and yet he hardly knew how to comfort her.

"You have this one now," he ventured at last, but the woman flashed almost angrily upon him,—

"'That' don't make up," she said, though she hugged her little girl tighter at the thought.

"I beg your pardon," said Jack, "and perhaps you wouldn't like me to say any more?"

"My nerves is so bad," apologised the woman, looking into his open face, which had flushed a deep red.

Though Jack had been brave once before that day, he was braver now.

"I don't think I gave you the true comfort," he said. "I heard my mother telling some one, that the Lord Jesus when He was on earth loved people even when He had to stay away sometimes. Perhaps He lets us have troubles that we may trust Him better."

The woman gave him a glance of surprise, and Jack, thinking he had leave to go, sped towards the house, little dreaming that after all with "that" Name, he "had" comforted the woman!

* * * * * * *

"We have been looking at the swans," said Eddie. "And mother says they are going home to bed, and that we must too!"

"Oh!" said Effie. "I wish we could stay here always,—don't you, Eddie?"

"For some things," answered Eddie candidly, "but we should want mother, you know."

"Of course we should; she'd have to stay here."

"But the servants could not do without her," remarked Eddie, as if that were conclusive.

And Effie saw it was, and did not argue the point further.

"We must put on our things," said their mother regretfully; "the fly is at the door, and the train will not wait for us."

"No, that it won't," said Jack. "I can't bear saying 'Good-bye,' I'd rather say 'Good-night,' then you have the hope of meeting the next day. I wish we had!"

"We must not make a regret out of our great happiness," said their grandmamma's voice behind them. "I never spent such a happy day! Let us say 'Good-night,' as Jack suggests, instead of 'Good-bye.'"

So everybody took up the idea that there were to be no regrets, but only the loving word, "Good-night" was to be spoken, as each party had to leave.

Eddie and Effie, with their parents, accompanied by Cyril and his parents, were nearly the first to go, and very very sleepy were the little people before they got to the end of the journey.

In fact, there was some suspicion that the three little pairs of eyes had forty winks in the train.

However that might have been, Eddie and Effie were quite awake enough to give their mother a great hug, and to whisper that they had had a very, very, "very" happy day.

"If those cousins hadn't been so rough—" began Effie, but her mother stopped her with a kiss.

"We will not remember one tiresome thing to-day," she said brightly. "It has been the best and loveliest day possible."

"But then," said Eddie archly, "perhaps nothing tiresome 'did' happen to you, mother dear!"

"I tore my dress," she answered, in a mock doleful tone; "I shall never get over 'that'—"

"What?" asked their father, entering.

"—that stile again, I was going to say," she answered, laughing, "only I wanted to shock Effie just a very little bit."

So another "Good-night" was said, and the two pairs of eyes closed wearily, and Eddie and Effie left the Golden Wedding-day behind.

Not two fields off, at that very moment, Cyril sat on his mother's knee, telling her all about his day. Not that she did not know all about it before, but she did not mind hearing it afresh from his lips.

He was even wider awake than Eddie and Effie, for he had had more than forty winks in the train. His mother's knee had been a pillow for his curls all the time of his journey, and now he had reached home and had partaken of supper with his parents, he felt ready for anything, and chatted away as if sleep were a thing quite unheard of.

"Tell me a story, mother," he pleaded; "then when you've told me one, I'll promise to go to sleep."

"Say instead, that you will promise to lie still, and shut your eyes. I do not think you can make yourself go to sleep, Cyril."

"Can't I?" he asked, his innocent eyes meeting hers with a surprised look.

"I do not think so. There are some things we can do, and some things we can't."

"Tell me a story about that!"

"About what, Cyril?"

"About what we can't do, and we can."

His mother smiled.

"I knew a little boy once who was left in a room by himself, and was told not to touch anything on the table."

"Not me?" interrupted Cyril.

"Not you, dearest; oh! no. Some other little boy. Well, he promised his mother, and when she was gone, he stood a long time listening to his mother's footsteps dying away in the distance. And then he turned to look at the table. He had not thought before anything about it. But now, just because he was told not, his mind went back to it, and his eyes felt as if they must turn that way and no other."

"What a silly little boy," remarked Cyril sagely; "he should have shut them up tight."

"Well, he didn't. He thought he would just walk over to the table and have a look. So he did, and as we often find, looking was not enough. There was a basin of something standing within reach.

"'Mother meant this bread and milk for me, I am sure,' he said to himself, 'she always gives me some at bedtime. I wonder if there's sugar in it? Mother always puts sugar in it, if I'm good: I have been good all day, to-day. It's been a good day, I'm sure.'

"He drew nearer; he would have peeped in it or even tasted it, but the table was too high. Having thus played with temptation, he put out both his hands and tipped the basin just a very little. The basin was slippery, and just as the little boy had a full view of its contents, over it tipped, pouring a stream of milk right down his chest."

"Was he burned?" asked Cyril, horrified.

"You may well ask that, Cyril. Fortunately, indeed, the milk had only been placed there ready for boiling, and was quite cold; or else that little boy would have been terribly scalded, and might have died! Now, Cyril, tell me—was what he did, one of the things he might have helped? Did he make a promise to his mother that he could have kept?"

Cyril considered the matter soberly for ever so long, and then ended by flinging his arms tightly round his mother's neck.

"Oh, you dear mother!" he exclaimed. "I s'pose it was! I 'am' so glad he wasn't scalded, but only nasty and wet! But now, mother, say my prayers, and then I'll promise!"

So Cyril laid his head on his pillow, promising only to shut his eyes and lie very quiet, and his mother said "Good-night" with a happy heart, and ran downstairs to talk over the Golden Wedding-day with her husband.

Meanwhile, another party had reached home, a large and rather tired party. For there had been too much talking and laughing in the train for the regulation "forty winks." And when they arrived at their house, the little ones were very sleepy, and it must be confessed a wee bit cross.

But nurse and mother and elder sisters each took a tired child in charge, and went off with them to their respective rooms.

One little boy was so fatigued that he threw himself on his bed and begged to be allowed to stay as he was! But a little management soon divested the tired young gentleman of his visiting apparel, and almost before they could tuck him up, he was in dreamland.

"Nursie dear!" called Ethel from her bed in the night nursery. "I'm not a bit sleepy; can't you let me hold baby while you see to the others?"

"Wait till I've undressed him then," answered nurse, "and we'll see about it. I declare I never saw such a lot of you to get to bed at once!"

"No, because we don't generally go out all at once, and Golden Wedding-days don't happen very often."

"I should hope not," remarked nurse, good-humouredly, remembering the bustle it had been to get them off in the morning, and how very early everybody had been awake, and what an array of garments had been laid out on a certain spare bed for days, so that not one thing should be forgotten or missing when the grand morning arrived. Oh, yes, she remembered it all, and was glad Golden Wedding-days did not happen every week.

"But you liked going, didn't you, nursie?"

"Oh! Yes, miss, it was very nice indeed. I'm sure, to see such a number of young ladies and gentlemen together, with all their papas and mammas, except poor Miss Archer's, of course, was a treat worth going fifty miles to see, that it was!"

So the baby was undressed and given to Ethel to amuse, and then nurse turned to another of her charges, who was leaning on the table not making any attempt to prepare for the night.

"What is the matter, Miss Elsie?" she asked.

"I'm thinking," said Elsie, without looking up.

"You're tired, I expect," said Nurse.

"No, I'm not,—not in the least tired. I was thinking about that gingerbread that we made. I wish it had had some lemon peel in it!"

"Is that all?" said nurse. "I thought it was something very serious."

"That's all," said Elsie.

But she said it with such a sleepy yawn, that nurse came gently behind her and unfastened her dress without any further remark. And though Elsie had a slight suspicion that she was being managed, it was so delightful to feel herself nearing her bed without any effort on her part that she yielded herself to the soothing touch, and said "Good-night" quite gratefully when nurse bent over her at last with a kiss.

But before this, the last good-nights were being said at Bickley.

"Lily is going home with us," said Frank, one of the Reigate boys. "Mother's asked her to stay till Monday."

"I am glad of that," said her grandfather, laying his hand on Lily Archer's shoulder. "I was wondering where my little lonely bird would rest to-night?"

"Were you?" asked Lily, looking up gratefully.

"I thought they had asked you to stay here?"

"So grandmamma did, but I thought I ought to go back to be ready for my school children on Monday."

"And now?" asked her grandfather.

"Now," interrupted Jack, "'we' want her. Some of us would be dreadfully disappointed if she went back to London to-night. We are going to telegraph to her home to say she'll be up by the first train on Monday."

Every one seemed to think this a capital plan, and soon the Reigate party were on their way to the station, Claude Champion thinking that quiet walk under the stars the very pleasantest thing in that eventful day.

By-and-by, they reached home, where they found a bright fire blazing, lighted by the maid to greet their arrival.

Sitting round in a circle, they all compared notes of their experiences of the day's doings, each telling his or her view of the great event. Dorothy, the only girl, standing close to Lily's side, while Jack looked thoughtfully into the fire.

Presently he told them the story of his cottager's trouble and relief, and ended up with a funny look as he said,—

"I never can see why it is people are so immensely fond of their babies! Babies seem to me to grow on every hedge!"

His mother, who was sitting opposite him, shook her head, smiling, however, to herself.

"Eh, mother?" he asked. "Did you ever value us in that frantic sort of way?"

"Not frantic at all," she answered; "but—Jack, I think I have had to learn that it is only as long as God keeps my dear ones for me that I can hold them."

"I suppose it is," said Jack seriously, "but—"

"It is the safest keeping of all—" said his mother.

And then their eyes wandered to two pictures on the wall, at which they looked, often unconsciously, every day of their lives, and of which their mother had told them the story, which flashed on Jack now as she spoke.

"Say us that lullaby, mother," he said.

So his mother repeated,—

"Lying at rest, softly at rest,
Thus lies my child to-day;
Safe from fear, far or near,
Safe from the world's dismay.
Sailing at rest, sweetly at rest,
Thus sails my love to-day;
Safe from fear, God is near,
Safe from the heart's dismay.
Only at rest, always at rest,
In Thee, my Lord, to-day;
Safe from fear, Thou art near;
Safe in Thy care we stay."

Then she told them if they did not say "Good-night" soon, the Golden Wedding-day would be gone, and they would have to wish each other good morning, which would not be at all nice!

But before twelve o'clock strikes, indeed, an hour before that, the last of Mr. and Mrs. Forde's children were arriving at their home in London.

It was late, and a hansom was the only vehicle which could be obtained at the station. But the two children thought this all the more fun, for to squeeze into it and to drive along with the cool night air blowing in their faces with the moonlight making everything almost as bright as day, was a treat such as they had never before enjoyed, and was a fit close to the day, to their thinking.

Mildred sat on her father's knee, while her little sister Dolly stood up behind, and leaned over her mother's shoulder, kissing her softly every few minutes, and whispering happy nothings.

At last, they drew up close to home, and their father hurried to the door to get it opened as soon as possible.

But the servants were on the look-out, and so was Vixen, in her kennel. He had hardly touched the bell before the lighted hall was in full view.

Mildred led her little sister in. And while her mother was putting aside her bonnet, she kept her amused, though she could not help yawning privately.

She was not sorry to go straight upstairs when her mother came back, but was too much of a child-lover not to be interested in their little darling's sayings and doings while she was being undressed.

"I've got a secret!" exclaimed Dolly suddenly. "Where's father?"

"He is downstairs," said her mother.

"He mus' 'tum up," said Dolly, decidedly.

"Oh, Dolly, he's tired," said Mildred, who stood in her little pink dressing-gown ready for bed, but obliged to stay to hear what their pet had to say.

"He isn't," said Dolly. "I've got what Grandma said, to say to him. Call him, Mildred!"

"He will not mind, for once," said their mother; "he is such a dear father! But, Dolly, after that, you must lie down and go to sleep, for you were never up so late in your life before!"

Dolly nodded, and Mildred ran out to the stairs and called, "Father, Father, Dolly has something very particular to toll you!"

"Hey day! Has she? Then I must come, I suppose. What is it, Dolly? You do not want any more biscuits, I hope?"

"I'se 'sick' of biscuits," said Dolly, shaking her curls.

"Then what is it? Have you enjoyed yourself?"

"She did," said Mildred, "and so did I. That's not what she wants to say."

"Is it that you want to go to bed, like the stag in the picture downstairs, who knows that his time for rest has come?"

"Well," began Dolly, with a bright look in her eyes, "I fink it is."

"Or is it that you have blown away all your teeth with those bubbles of Lily Archer's?"

Dolly laughed gleefully, while two rows of pearls, perfect and even, came into view.

"Make haste and tell me then," said her father, smiling. "I'm going off to sleep."

Dolly peeped up in his face to see if he were in earnest.

"'Tum 'tose to me."

"Don't strangle me then."

"Shall I say it?"

"Why, yes, Dolly, be quick,—that's what I'm waiting for."

She put her soft little arms quite round his neck and her rosy lips touched his ear.

"Grandma told us—" she said, and paused.

"I'm quite ready for it—"

"It's only 'Good-night,' father dear! Good-night!"

THE END.