nt again to her
work. "I don't like to pick up," she said softly. "It's more interesting
not to pick up--ever." She lifted her face from a print of Apollo and
looked at Miss Stone intently. "There might be gods that could pick
up--pick themselves up, perhaps--?" It was a polite suggestion--but
there was a look in the dark face--the look of the meat-packer's
daughter--something that darted ahead and compelled gods to pick
themselves up. She bent again, the little sigh checking itself on her
lip. Miss Stone did not like to have little girls object--and it was not
polite, and besides you _had_ to take care of things--your own things.
The servants took care of the house for you, and brought you things to
eat, and made beds for you, and fed the horses and ironed clothes... but
your own things--the gods and temples and scrapbooks and paste that you
left lying about--you had to put away yourself! Her fingers found the
paste-tube and screwed it firmly in place--with a little twist of the
small mouth--and hovered above the prints with quick touch. The servants
did things--other things. Constance mended your clothes and dressed you,
and Marie served you at table, and sometimes she brought a nice little
lunch if you were hungry--and you and Miss Stone had it together on the
school table--but no one ever--ever--_ever_--picked up your playthings
for you. She thrust the last god into his box and closed the lid firmly.
Then she looked up. She was alone in the big room... in the next room
she could hear Miss Stone moving softly, getting ready for the drive.
She slipped from her seat and stood in the window, looking out--far
ahead the lake stretched--dancing with green waves and little white
edges--and down below, the horses curved their great necks that
glistened in the sun--and the harness caught gleams of light. The
child's eyes dwelt on them happily. They were her very own, Pollux and
Castor--and she was going driving--driving in the sun. She hummed a
little tune, standing looking down at them.

Behind her stretched the great room--high-ceiled and wide, and furnished
for a princess--a child princess. Its canopied bed and royal draperies
had come across the seas from a royal house--the children of kings
had slept in it before Betty Harris. The high walls were covered with
priceless decoration--yet like a child in every line. It was Betty's
own place in the great house--and the little room adjoining, where Miss
Stone slept, was a part