he audience, of
fealty knight and ladies, bowed her small head to the swathed and
shapeless feet of heaven's error and became waiting woman to a flannel
bundle.

Only her dreams remained to her. She could still look forward to the
glorious time of "when I'm big." She could still unbind her dun-colored
hair and shake it in the sun. She could still quiver with anticipation
as she surveyed her brilliant future. A beautiful prince was coming to
woo her. He would ride to the door and kneel upon the front porch while
all his shining retinue filled the front yard and overflowed into the
road. Then she would appear and, since these things were to happen in
the days of her maturity, perhaps when she was twelve years old, she
would be radiantly beautiful, and her hair would be all goldy gold and
curly, and it would trail upon the ground a yard or two behind her as
she walked. And the prince would be transfixed. And when he was all
through being that--Mary often wondered what it was--he would arise and
sing "Nicolette, the Bright of Brow," or some other disguised
personality, while all his shining retinue would unsling hautboys and
lyres and--and--mouth organs and play ravishing music.

And when she rode away to be the prince's bride and to rule his fair
lands, her father and her mother should ride with her, all in the
sunshine of the days "when I'm big"--the wonderful days "when I'm big."

Meanwhile, being but little, she served the flannel bundle even as Sir
Beaumanis had served a yet lowlier apprenticeship. But she still stormed
high heaven to rectify its mistake.

"And please, dear God, if you are all out of goats and wagons, send
rabbits. But anyway come and take away this baby. My mamma ain't well
enough to take care of it an' I can't spare the time. We don't need
babies, but we do need that goat and wagon."

And the powers above, with a mismanagement which struck their petitioner
dumb, sent a wagon--only a wagon--and it was a gocart for the baby, and
Mary was to be the goat.

With this millstone tied about her neck she was allowed to look upon the
scenes of her early freedom, and no inquisitor could have devised a more
anguishing torture than that to which Mary's suffering and unsuspecting
mother daily consigned her suffering and uncomplaining daughter.

"Walk slowly up and down the paths, dear, and don't leave your sister
for a moment. Isn't it nice that you have somebody to play with now?"

"Yes, ma'am," said Mar