It was Nancy who was standing at the farmhouse door one lovely Sunday
evening. Old Mrs. Platt was the only one at home, and she motioned with
her hand where her little grandson would be found.

Nancy discovered him a few minutes later, lying full length in the
sweet-scented clover, an open book before him. When he raised his face to
hers, it wore his most angelic look.

'Hulloo! what have you come here for?' he asked.

'To talk to you,' and, without more ado, Nancy squatted down beside him.
'What are you doing?' she went on; 'and what's your Sunday book?'

'It's the _Pilgrim's Progress_. I love it; don't you? I haven't been
reading it though for a long time. I've been having a beautiful make-up.'

'Tell me,' and Nancy's tone was eager.

Teddy looked away to the purple hills in the distance, and beyond and
above them to the soft evening sky, with its delicate fleecy clouds
flitting by, and taking every imaginable form and shape as they did so.

The dreamy, far-away look came into his eyes as he said slowly,--

'It's a Sunday make-believe, quite one to myself, and I've never told it
to any one. I can only tell it to myself out of doors, when it's still
and quiet, and then I feel sometimes it's quite real!'

'Do tell me,' pleaded Nancy coaxingly.