on a low cushioned seat in a corner--there was one kept ready for
her in every room in the house, and Hazel and Diana carried her
about in an "arm-chair," made of their own clasped hands and wrists,
wherever they all wanted to go,--Sulie was beating eggs.

Sulie did that so patiently; you see she had no temptation to jump
up and run off to anything else. The eggs turned, under her
fingers, into thick, creamy, golden froth, fine to the last possible
divisibility of the little air-bubbles.

They could not do without Sulie now. They had had her for "all
winter;" but in that winter she had grown into their home.

"Why," said Hazel to her mother, when they had the few words about
it that ended in there being no more words at all,--"that's the way
children are _born_ into houses, isn't it? They just come; and
they're new and strange at first, and seem so queer. And then after
a while you can't think how the places were, and they not in them.
Sulie belongs, mother!"

So Sulie beat eggs, and darned stockings, and painted her lovely
little flower-panels and racks and easels, and did everything that
could be done, sitting still in her round chair, or in the cushioned
corners made for her; and was always in the kitchen, above all, when
any pretty little cookery was going forward.

Vash ran in and out from the garden, and brought balsamine blossoms,
from which she pulled the little fairy slippers, and tried to match
them in pairs; and she picked off the "used-up and puckered-up"
morning glories, which she blew into at the tube-end, and "snapped"