me now," said this individual.

"It is only just for a moment," replied the Angel, knitting her brows,
and standing in such a position that she excluded all light from
falling on the severe-looking lady's writing-pad.

"Which is the prettiest, buttercups or daisies, or the two twisted up
together?" she said.

"Oh, don't worry me, child, I want to catch this post. My brother is
very ill, and he'll be so annoyed if he doesn't hear from me. Did you
say buttercups and daisies mixed? Yes, of course, mix them, that is
the old nursery rhyme."

The little Sibyl stamped a small foot encased in a red shoe with an
impatient movement, and turned once more to contemplate herself in
the glass. Miss Winstead, the governess, resumed her letter, and a
clock on the mantelpiece struck out seven silvery chimes.

"They'll be going in to dinner; I must be very quick indeed," thought
the child. She began to pull out the flowers, to arrange them in
little groups, and presently, by the aid of numerous pins, to deck her
small person.

"Mother likes me when I am pretty," she repeated softly under her
breath, "but father likes me anyhow." She thought over this somewhat
curious problem. Why should father like her anyhow? Why should mother
only kiss her and pet her when she was downright pretty?

"Do I look pretty?" she said at last, dancing back to the governess's
side.

Miss Winstead dropped her pen and looked up at the radiant little
figure. She had contrived to tie some of the wild flowers together,
and had encircled them round her white forehead, and mixed them in her
flowing locks, and here, there, and everywhere on her white dress were
bunches of buttercups and daisies, with a few violets thrown in.

"Do I look pretty?" repeated Sibyl Ogilvie.

"You are a very vain little girl," said Miss Winstead. "I won't tell
you whether you look pretty or not, you ought not to think of your
looks. God does not like people who think whether they are pretty or
not. He likes humble-minded little girls. Now don't interrupt me any
more."

"There's the gong, I'm off," cried Sibyl. She kissed her hand to Miss
Winstead, her face all alight with happiness.

"I know I am pretty, she always talks like that when I am," thought
the child, who had a very keen insight into character. "Mother will
kiss me to-night, I am so glad. I wonder if Jesus Christ thinks me
pretty, too."

Sibyl Ogilvie, aged eight, had a theology of her own. It was extremely
simpl