Her mother lowered her tone, and looked subdued. Miss turned to a
companion, and said, gravely,--

"I have to speak to her about that, often. She don't like it,--but I
_must_ correct her!"

A little girl--a charming, old-fashioned, _real_ child--came into the
summer-house a few minutes ago, and I gave up my writing to watch her.
After some coy manoeuvring about the door, she drew nearer and nearer to
me, as if I were a snake fascinating a pretty bird. Her tongue
seemed more bashful than the rest of her frame; for she came within
arm's-length, let me catch her, draw her to me, and hold her close to
my side. A novel sensation of fondness for the little thing made me
venture--not without some timidity, I confess--to lay my hand upon her
head, and pass it caressingly over her soft young cheek, meanwhile
saying encouraging things to her, in hopes of hearing her voice and
making her acquaintance. She would not speak, but played with my
buttons, and hung her head. At last I asked,--

"Don't you want me to tell you a little story?"

Her head flew up, her great black eyes wide open, and she said, eagerly,
"Oh, yes! that's what I came for."

"Did you? Well, what shall it be about?"

"Why, about yourself,--the prince who was half marble, and couldn't get
up. And I want to see your black marble legs, please!"