ceeded to pack up her face. No other word to my mind describes the
process. First of all she shut her eyes tight. To keep them tight seemed
to require a great physical effort; this was done by tightly screwing
up her nose. Next she proceeded to gather her eyebrows into the smallest
possible compass, and then she drew a deep breath, folded her small
hands, and started off at a terrific pace, "Gaw bess parver yan muvver
yan nannie yan hughyan betty yan dicky an aunt woggles yan ellen yan
emma yan croft--yan blusby yan all ve vitty children yan make dem velly
good boys yan make my nastyole bunnyagoodgirl. May Yaya get up?"

"Not yet, baby, think," said Nannie.

Sara thought, and then with a fresh access of solemnity repeated
an entirely new version of the Lord's Prayer. Nannie understood it
evidently, for at a point quite unintelligible to me, Nannie said, "Good
girl!" and Sara jumped up.

Nannie told me that nothing would induce Sara to pray that she might
be made good. She was always very ready to make such petitions on the
behalf of Betty and Hugh, but for herself, no. She is not like Betty,
who at her age prayed, "Dear God, please make me a good little girl, but
if you can't manage it, don't bother about it; Nannie will soon do it."

Difficult and tedious as the task may have appeared to Betty, I think
it was assuredly within the power of God to make her good without the
intervention of Nannie. Dear Betty!

Sara was then put to bed, and while Nannie brushed her hair, Sara
brushed the hearth-brush's hair. Sara was very anxious to have it in her
bath with her, but here Nannie was firm.

Later the hearth-brush was dressed in a nightgown and laid beside Sara
in her little bed. The last thing she did before going to sleep
was to gaze at her darling "blush" with rapture and say,
"Nasty--'ollid--bunny!"

Her eyelashes fluttered and then gently fell on her cheek, as a
butterfly hovers and then settles on the petal of a rose.

"Leave it here, miss," said Nannie; "she'll see it when she wakes."

I left the despised bunny and went to dress for dinner. Betty was
waiting for me outside. "Is the cooking-stove for my very own self, Aunt
Woggles?"

"Absolutely, Betty. Why?"

"Only because Hugh wondered if it wasn't or him, too. He only wondered,
and I said I didn't suppose one present could be for two people, because
then it wouldn't be such a very real present, would it?"

I said, "Of course not"; and I told her the sto