asleep, when the little white shape once more lifted itself in the crib, and the small voice asked—“Do you like Graham, Miss Snowe?”

“Like him! Yes, a little.”

“Only a little! Do you like him as I do?”

“I think not. No: not as you do.”

“Do you like him much?”

“I told you I liked him a little. Where is the use of caring for him so very much: he is full of faults.”

“Is he?”

“All boys are.”

“More than girls?”

“Very likely. Wise people say it is folly to think anybody perfect; and as to likes and dislikes, we should be friendly to all, and worship none.”

“Are you a wise person?”

“I mean to try to be so. Go to sleep.”

“I _cannot_ go to sleep. Have you no pain just here” (laying her elfish hand on her elfish breast,) “when you think _you_ shall have to leave Graham; for _your_ home is not here?”

“Surely, Polly,” said I, “you should not feel so much pain when you are very soon going to rejoin your father. Have you forgotten him? Do you no longer wish to be his little companion?”

Dead silence succeeded this question.

“Child, lie down and sleep,” I urged.

“My bed is cold,” said she. “I can’t warm it.”

I saw the little thing shiver. “Come to me,” I said, wishing, yet scarcely hoping, that she would comply: for she was a most strange, capricious, little creature, and especially whimsical with me. She came, however, instantly, like a small ghost gliding over the carpet. I took her in. She was chill: I warmed her in my arms. She trembled nervously; I soothed her. Thus tranquillized and cherished she at last slumbered.

“A very unique child,” thought I, as I viewed her 

 Prev. P 27/458 next