like Mother's, and--almost the pleasantest of all,--deep,
delighted Father-Laughs that almost made her homesick. They seemed to
be having such a very good time up there that she would have liked to
listen to them forever; besides, she kept thinking she might catch
sight of one. But, though she several times saw the vines swaying, or
something flashing behind a laurel-bush, she was obliged to go on
without really seeing any.

At the shady door of almost every cottage a pleasant Smile in a very
white, old-fashioned kerchief and cap sat spinning at a queer sort of
wheel; and the Teacup explained to Sara that this was where the
dimples were made.

"It's the chief occupation of the women," said the Teacup. "The thread
they use is something like spun-glass, and this is the only place in
the world where the secret of making it is known. They weave it into
this fabric that looks something like cloth, and then cut it into the
different shapes with their scissors. You see now why dimples are so
fragile."

The Smiles all spoke to them with pleasant looks, and gladly stopped
their work to talk to Sara, as she stood admiringly beside their
wheels. She saw a good many gentleman Smiles going happily about their
work--drawing water, watering the flowers, or (since it was getting
late) milking the little buttercup-colored cows. Here and there, too,
a happy Smile, too little to go with the other children, rolled about
and gurgled at its Mother's feet like a Cupid escaped from a
Valentine.

All this time Sara had been struggling with a plan that had been
shaping itself in her mind as she looked at basket after basket full
of shimmering, shining dimples, sitting beside the spinning wheels.
After trying to start several times, she finally managed to ask of one
of the pleasantest Smiles,

"Do you--do you sell them?"

"Well, we don't usually sell them here," she answered doubtfully. "We
ship them, you see, to the Stork. He takes our entire output. But, if
you like, I could let you have a dozen for a kiss or two."

Sara clapped her hands, and drew the Teacup aside. "I'd like to take
some to the Snimmy," she explained. "He wanted mine so. Do you think I
might?"

"Why, bless the child!" cried the Teacup. She looked pleased and
flustered and doubtful, all at once; for she wasn't used to taking so
much responsibility. "That's very dear and generous of you, I'm sure.
It's never been done, has it?" she asked, turing to the Gunki, who,
f