a, mamma," cried Blue Eyes, "can't I have my little tea-set on a
little table beside your big table? Oh, let me, let me!" and she fairly
quivered with excitement. You hesitated. How I watched you! But it was a
little late. Bridget was already rather cross; the tea-set was packed in a
box, and up on a high shelf.

"No, dear. There is not time, and we must not make Bridget any more
trouble; but"--seeing the tears coming again--"you shall have some real
tea in papa's big gilt cup, and another time you shall have your tea-set
when we have breakfast out here again." As I said before, you are a kind
mother, and you made the denial as easy to be borne as you could, and Blue
Eyes was again pacified, not satisfied, only bravely making the best of
it. And so we had our breakfast; a breakfast to be remembered, too. But as
for the "other time" which you had promised to Blue Eyes; how well I knew
that not many times a year did such mornings and breakfasts come, and that
it was well she would forget all about it! After breakfast,--you remember
how we lingered,--George suddenly started up, saying, "How hard it is to
go to town! I say, girls, walk down to the station with me, both of you."

"And me too, me too, papa!" said Blue Eyes. You did not hear her; but I
did, and she had flown for her hat. At the door we found her, saying
again, "Me too, mamma!" Then you remembered her boots: "Oh, my darling,"
you said, kissing her, for you are a kind mother, "you cannot go in those
nice boots: the dew will spoil them; and it is not worth while to change
them, we shall be back in a few minutes."

A storm of tears would have burst out in an instant at this the third
disappointment, if I had not sat down on the door-step, and, taking her in
my lap, whispered that auntie was going to stay too.

"Oh, put the child down, and come along," called the great, strong,
uncomprehending man--Blue Eyes' dear papa. "Pussy won't mind. Be a good
girl, pussy; I'll bring you a red balloon to-night."

You are both very kind, you and George, and you both love little Blue Eyes
dearly.

"No, I won't come. I believe my boots are too thin," said I; and for the
equivocation there was in my reply I am sure of being forgiven. You both
turned back twice to look at the child, and kissed your hands to her; and
I wondered if you did not see in her face, what I did, real grief and
patient endurance. Even "The King of the Golden River" did not rouse her:
she did not want a