Yet another evening she begged me to stay a little while with her, as she was sure she could not fall asleep. The best way for a little girl to fall asleep, I told herand every little girl ought to know it-is to think she is in a garden, and to gather a lot of moss-roses, and to make a chain of them; and then she must glide away over the grass, without touching it, to a stile in the green fields and wait till she hears a pattering of feet; and, almost immediately, a flock of sheep will pass by, dozens and dozens, and then a flock of lambs, and she must count them every one; and at last a lovely white lamb with a black face will come, and she must throw the rose-chain over its head and trot along beside it till she reaches the daffodil meadows where the dream-tree grows, and the lamb will lie down under the tree, and she must lie down beside it, and the tree will shake down the softest sleep on them, and there will be no waking till daylight comes. Once more, a few minutes later, there was a sound of weeping in the dark. Oh, yes, she had counted the sheep and the lambs, every one of them, and had got to the meadows; but one little lamb had stayed behind and had got lost in the mountains, and she could hear it crying for the others.

There is a foolish beatitude in dallying with these childish recollections, but unless I record them now I shall be the poorer to the end of time; they will vanish from memory like that diamond dust of dew which I once saw covering the nasturtium leaves with a magical, iridescent bloom. All during the summer months it has been a joy to see the world through her young eyes. She is a little shepherdess of vagrant facts and fancies, and her crook is a note of interrogation. "What is a sponge, father?" she asks. And there is a story of the blue sea water and the strange jellylike creature enjoying its dim life on the deep rocks, and the diver, let down from his boat by a rope with a heavy stone at the end to sink him. "Poor sponge! says

W. V., touching it gently. As we go along the fields we see a horse lying down and another standing beside it-both of them as motionless as stone. "They think they are having their photographs taken," says W. V. The yellow of a daisy is of course "the yolk." On a windy May morning "it does the trees good being blown about; it is like a little walk for them." When she sees the plane-tree catkins all fluffed over with wool, she thinks they are very like little kittens. Crossing the fields after dusk I tell her that all that white shimmer in the sky is the Milky Way; “Oh, is that why the cows lie out in the grass all night?' After rain I show her how the water streams down the hill and comes away in a succession of little rushes; "It' is like a wet wind, isn't it?" she observes. Having modeled an ivy leaf in clay, she wonders whether God would think it pretty good if He saw it; but "it is a pity it isn't green." When the foal springs up from all four hoofs drawn together and goes bounding round in a wild race, “Doesn't he folâtre, father?" then in explanation, " that comes in Madame's lesson, Le poulain folâtre.”

In the woods in June we gathered tiny green oaklets shooting from fallen acorns, and took them home. By-and-by we shall have oaks of our own, and a swing between them; and if we like we can climb them, for no one will then have any right to shout "Hi! come down, there!" So we planted our prospective woods, and watered them. They think it is raining," whispered W. V. with a laugh;

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they fancy we are all indoors, don't they?" At 7:30 P.M. on the longest day of the year the busiest of bumble-bees is diving into bell after bell of the three foxglove spires in the garden. W. V.'s head just reaches the lowest bell on the purple spire. "Little girls don't grow as fast as foxgloves, do they?" She notices that the bells are speckled inside with irregular reddish-brown freckles on a white ground; "Just like a bird's eggs. This is the only plant in the garden which does not outrun its flower; there is always a fresh bell in blossom at the top; however high it goes, it always takes its joy with it. That will be a thing to tell her when she is older; meanwhile—“I may have some of the gloves to put on my fingers, mayn't I, father?"

In July the planet was glorified by the arrival of her Irish terrier. She threw us and creation at large the crumbs from her table, but her heart was bound up in her

greatest King in the world." I was telling her how sternly children were brought up fifty or sixty years ago; how they bowed to their father's empty chair, stood when he entered the room, did not dare speak unless they were spoken to, and always called him "sir." "Did they never say 'father'? Did they not say it on Sundays for a treat?" A little while later, after profound reflection, she asked -"God is very old; does Jesus call Him Father?" "Yes, dear; He always called Him Father.' It was only earthly fathers after all who did not suffer their babes to come, to them.

Oh, the good summer days when merely to be alive is a delight. How easily we were amused! One could always float needles on a bowl of water-needles? nay, little hostile fleets of ironclads which we manoeuvred with magnets, and which rammed each other and went down in wild anachronism, galley and three-decker, off Salamis or Lepanto. Did you ever play at It is refreshing on a tropical day; but you need a conservatory with a flagged floor and the sun shining at your back. Then you syringe the inside of the glass roof, and as the showers fall in fine spray, there is the rainbow laughing on the wet pavement! When it is too hot for anything," W. V. makes a small fire of dry leaves and dead wood under a tree, and we sit beside it making believe it is wet and wintry, and glad at heart that we have a dry nook in a cold world.

Still in the last chilly days of autumn, and afterwards, we have our resources. Regiments of infantry and squadrons of rearing chargers make a gay show, with the red and blue and white of their uniforms reflected on the polished oak table. The drummer-boys beat the charge, the buglers blow. The artillery begins; and Highlanders at the double spin right about face, and horsemen topple over in groups, and there is a mighty slaughter and a dire confusion around the man with the big drum-"his Grace's private drum." Then farewell the plumèd troop and the big wars! We are Vikings now. Here is the atlas and Mercator's projection. W. V. launches her little paper boat with its paper crew, and a snoring breeze carries us through the Doldrums and across the Line, and we double the Cape of Storms and sniff the spices of Taprobane, and behold the little island where I was born! "That little black spot, father?" "Yes." "Oh, the dear old

place!" I am surprised that the old picturesque Mappemonde, with its elephants and camel trains and walled towns and queer-rigged ships, does not interest her. She will enjoy it later.

The day closes in and the curtains are drawn, and I light a solitary candle. As I bring out the globe, she calls laughingly, "Oh, father, you can't carry the world-don't try!' Here we are in the cold of stellar space, with a sun to give us whatever season we want. With her fan she sets a wind blowing over half the planet. She distributes the sunshine in the most capricious fashion. We feel like icy gods in this bleak, blue solitude. "I suppose God made the suns to keep Himself warm." "He made you, dear, to keep me warm, and He made all of us to keep Him warm." She will get the meat out of that nut later. "I wonder what will happen when everybody is dead. Will the world go whirling round and round just as it does now?'

In all these amusements one consideration gives her huge joy: "You ought to be doing your work, oughtn't you, father?" Once, when I admitted that I really ought, she volunteered assistance. "Would it help you, father, if I was to make you a poem ? "Indeed it would, dear." Well, then, I must think." And after due thought, this was the poem she made me:

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"Two little birdies sat on a tree, having a talk with each other. In the room sat a little girl reading away at her picture-book. And in the room, as well, there was a boy playing with his horse and cart. Said one little birdie to the other, how nice it would be if you were a girl and I was a boy. (Hands are dropped full length and swept backward, and she bows.)

This was after the Man came.

Oh, the Man! I have been day-dreaming, and have forgotten the snowy woods, and the tracks of the wild creatures.

This is the story of the Man.

The Man arrived on the fifth of November. As soon as I reached home in the evening, W. V. had her lantern ready to go out Guy-Fawkesing. "I must go and see mother first, dear; " for mother had not been well. May I go too, father?" "Certainly, dear.

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We found mother looking very delicate and very happy. "We are going out to see the bonfires; we shall not be long. Give mother a kiss, dear." As W. V. approached the pillow, the clothes were gently folded back, and there on mother's arm-oh, the wonder and delight of it!—

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A darling, a little gem, a dear wee man! She wanted a boy!" How shockingly ecstatic it all was! For days her thoughts were constantly playing round him. She even forgot to give Tan his biscuits. "Even when I am an old lady I shall always be six and a half years older than Guy; and when Guy is a little old man he will be six and a half years younger than me. The very fire revealed itself in the guise of motherhood: "It has its arms about its baby." Crossquestioned by deponent: "Why, the log is the baby, father. And the fire has yellowy arms.

This was the chance, I thought, of helping her to realize Bethlehem. "The donkey and the cow would be kind to Guy, wouldn't they? They would let no one touch him." "Was Jesus very tiny and pink, too?" "And was God quite pink and tiny?" When I explained that God was not born, had never been a baby at all-"Oh, poor little boy!"

Out of the ox and the ass and Gelert and Guy she speedily made herself a wonderful drama. Watching her round the corner of my book, I saw the following puppet-play enacted, with some subdued mimetic sounds, but without a spoken word.

My daughter's admiration of my great. gifts has always been exhilarating to me. Time was when I cudgeled the loud wind for clattering her windows, and saw that malignant stones and obdurate wood and iron were condignly chastised for hurting her. No one has so much mechanical genius for the mending of her dolls and slain soldiers; no one can tell her such good stories as I; no one makes up such funny poems. Now she contrasted her voice with mine-alas! she cannot sing Guy to sleep. Well, let us make a new song and try together:

The creatures are all at rest,
The lark in his grassy furrow,
The crow in his faggoty nest,
And Bunny's asleep in his burrow;
But this little boy-

He is no longer his mother's joy,

For he will not, will not, will not, will not, will not go to sleep!

Oh yes, if we sing with gentle patience. and a sweet diminuendo, he always does go to sleep-in the long run.

I do not think there is anything she would not do for the Man. “Father, you will always be a stanch friend to Guy?" Why, naturally, and so must she; she must love him, and help him, and guide him, and be good to him all her life, for there is only one Guy and one W. V. in of the notion of the little mother, of conall the world. She has now caught hold siderateness, thoughtfulness, helpfulness, self-denial, self-sacrifice.

Yesterday the little Man noticed a bird painted on a plate and put out his hand. Fly out, little bird, to Guy!" cried W. It was a pretty fancy, and I wrote:

V.

IN CHINA.

With wings green and black and a daffodil breast, He flies day and night; without song, without rest; Through summer, through winter-the cloudy, the

clear

Encircling the sun in the round of the year.

That nests are a-building, and bloom's on the bough,
But now that it's April and shiny; oh, now
Alight, pretty rover, and get you a mate-
Our almond's in blossom-fly out of the plate!

But this was not at all successful. There were no almonds in blossom, and it should have been, "Fly out to Guy!”'

No almonds in blossom! I know the oaks are "in feathers," as W. V. says, and the Forest is full of snow; yet I feel that the almond is in blossom too.