ause you must love _one_ best, you know!' I thought
Dave's answer ingenious:--'I loves whichever it _is_, best.' If only all
young men were as candid about their loves, wouldn't they say the same?

"Dolly had picked up the recitation of the days of the week for her own
private use, and was repeating it _ad libitum_ in a melodious undertone,
always becoming louder on Flyday, Tackyday, Tunday. She was hanging over
the window-sill watching the surgical case opposite. How glad I am now
when I recollect my impulse to catch the little maid and keep her on my
knee! Dolly's good Angel prompted this, and had a hand in my inspiration
to tell the story of Cinderella, with occasional refrains of song which
I do believe old Mrs. Picture enjoyed as much as the two smalls. I
shudder as I think what it would have been if they had still been at the
window when it came--the thing I have been so long postponing.

"It came without any warning that it would have been possible to act
upon. We might certainly have shouted to those below to stand clear, _if
we had ourselves understood_. But how _could_ we? You can have no idea
how bewildering it was.

"When something you can't explain portends Heavens-know-what, what
on earth can you do? Pretend it's ghosts, and very curious and
interesting? I think I might have done so this time, when an alarming
noise set all our nerves on the jar. It was not a noise capable of
description--something like Behemoth hiccuping goes nearest. Only I
didn't want to frighten the babies, so I said nothing about the ghosts.
Dolly said it wasn't her--an obvious truth. Old Mrs. Picture said it
must have been her chair--an obvious fallacy. She then deserted her
theory and suggested that Dave should 'go down and see if anything was
broken,' which Dave immediately started to do, much excited.

"I felt very uncomfortable and creepy, for it recalled the shock of
earthquake Papa and I were in at Pisa two years ago--it is a feeling one
never gets over, that _terremotitis_, as Papa called it. I believe I was
more alarmed than Dolly, and as for Dave, I am sure that so far he
thought the whole thing the best fun imaginable. Picture to yourself, as
he slams the door behind him and shouts his message to the world below,
that I remain seated facing the light, while Dolly on my knee listens
to a postscript of Cinderella. My eyes are fixed on the beauty of the
old side-face I see against the light. Get this image clear, and then I