t, essays in
French and in German, the History of Egypt in Arabic, Budge's "Book of
the Dead," and "King Solomon's Mines."

"But what am I do _meanwhile_, Dads?" and the girl threw out her hands
imploringly.

"Be cold, deaf or brave, Golliwog, as I have suggested."

"But I've been all that, and it's quite useless. Do you think it would
help if I let my hair grow and did it up in a tight knob?"

"I think it would help a lot if you shaved your head entirely, kiddie."
And the man leant forward and ran his hand through the red curls.

Once upon a time Damaris had read the advertisement of a certain powder
guaranteed to darken hair of any colour, and life having been one long
torment owing to her violent colouring, she had, greatly daring,
acquired a packet; had followed the directions by mixing the powder
with water and covering her head with the muddy result, and, "to make
assurance doubly sure," had sat with her clay pate for an hour instead
of ten minutes near a fire; had cracked the clay, washed her head, and
found her hair grass-green.

She had chopped the verdant masses off without a thought, and had ever
after refused to allow it to grow to hairpin length, and to her father
only had granted the privilege of calling her by the pet name of
Golliwog.

"Would you like to travel a bit, pet?" And the man smiled, though his
heart was heavy at the thought of the blank which his Golliwog's
departure would leave in the home and the daily round.

"Travel! Travel! Oh! darling--to Egypt?

"Why Egypt? Why not France or--or Italy?"

"Because I've _got_ to go to Egypt sometime or another, Dads. I've got
to see the desert and the mosques and the whites and blues and oranges
and camels. It's _in_ me _here_," and she thumped her nightgown above
her heart. "I shall never be happy until I have seen them all. Oh!
Dads, I wonder if you can understand; it--it sounds so--so silly------"

"Tell me," and the man moved over to the head of the bed and took his
daughter gently in his arms.

"I'm so out of the picture, somehow, here, dearest," said the child,
striving as best she could to describe what was really only the passing
of the border-line between girl and womanhood. "This terrible
colouring of mine, for one thing. Why, amongst other girls, I am like
a Raemaeker stuffed into a Heath Robinson folio, like a palette daubed
with oils hung amongst a lot of water-colours. I want to find my own
nail and hang for one ho