bathing-dress with one hand, swinging herself to and fro, dipping
her head beneath the water, singing and shouting, easily shifting her
position when he wished to vary his, and floating by him like a little
fish, when he was tired of supporting her. It was pretty to see the
child in her one little crimson garment, her face flushed with delight,
her fair hair glistening from the water, and the waves rippling and
dancing round her buoyant form. As Harry swam farther and farther out,
his head was hidden from view by her small person, and she might have
passed for a red seabird rocking on the gentle waves. It was one of the
regular delights of the household to see them bathe.

Kate came in to Aunt Jane's room, one August morning, to say that they
were going to the water-side. How differently people may enter a room!
Hope always came in as the summer breeze comes, quiet, strong, soft,
fragrant, resistless. Emilia never seemed to come in at all; you looked
up, and she had somehow drifted where she stood, pleading, evasive,
lovely. This was especially the case where one person was awaiting her
alone; with two she was more fearless, with a dozen she was buoyant,
and with a hundred she forgot herself utterly and was a spirit of
irresistible delight.

But Kate entered any room, whether nursery or kitchen, as if it were the
private boudoir of a princess and she the favorite maid of honor. Thus
it was she came that morning to Aunt Jane.

"We are going down to see the bathers, dear," said Kate. "Shall you miss
me?"

"I miss you every minute," said her aunt, decisively. "But I shall do
very well. I have delightful times here by myself. What a ridiculous man
it was who said that it was impossible to imagine a woman's laughing at
her own comic fancies. I sit and laugh at my own nonsense very often."

"It is a shame to waste it," said Kate.

"It is a blessing that any of it is disposed of while you are not here,"
said Aunt Jane. "You have quite enough of it."

"We never have enough," said Kate. "And we never can make you repeat any
of yesterday's."

"Of course not," said Aunt Jane. "Nonsense must have the dew on it, or
it is good for nothing."

"So you are really happiest alone?"

"Not so happy as when you are with me,--you or Hope. I like to have Hope
with me now; she does me good. Really, I do not care for anybody else.
Sometimes I think if I could always have four or five young kittens
by me, in a champagne-basket, with a