y with
anxiety. And she was very glad to see them interested in the rest of the
stories for the time.

I cannot tell you these stories, but some day perhaps you may come
across the little book which they were made into. But there is one of
them which I should like to tell you, as it is not very long, and in
the children's mind it was always associated with something that
happened just as auntie had finished reading it. For it was the last of
her little stories, and it was called----

CHAPTER XII.

"THE TWO FUNNY LITTLE TROTS."

"Like to a double cherry."

_Midsummer-Night's Dream._

'"Oh mamma," cried I, from the window by which I was standing, to my
mother who was working by the fire, "_do_ come here and look at these
two funny little trots."'

[Auntie had only read this first sentence of her story when Sybil
interrupted her.

"Mother dear," she said, in her prim little way, "before you begin, do
tell us one thing. Does the story end sadly?"

Auntie smiled. "You should have asked me before I _had_ begun, Sybil,"
she said. "But never mind now. I don't really think I can tell you if
it ends sadly or not. It would be like telling you the end at the
beginning, and it would spoil the interest, if you understand what that
means."

"Very well," said Sybil, resignedly, "then I suppose I must wait. But I
_won't_ like it if it ends badly, mother, and Floss won't, and Carrots
won't. Will you, Floss and Carrots?"

"I don't think Floss and Carrots can say, till they've heard it," said
auntie. "Now, Sybil, you mustn't interrupt any more. Where was I? Oh
yes"]--'"_do_ come and look at these two funny little trots."

'My mother got up from her seat and came to the window. She could not
help smiling when she saw the little couple I pointed out to her.

'"Aren't they a pair of fat darlings?" I said. "I wonder if they live in
our terrace?"

'We knew very little of our neighbours, though we were not living in
London, for we had only just come to St. Austin's. We had come there to
spend the winter, as it was a mild and sheltered place, for I, then a
girl of sixteen, had been in delicate health for some time.' ["You
wouldn't believe it to see me now, would you?" said auntie, looking up
at the children with a smile on her pretty young-looking face, but it
was quite true, all the same.] 'I was my mother's only girl,' she went
on, turning to her manuscript again, 'and she was a widow, so you can
fanc