and enjoying immensely that story by Mrs. Henry Wood, entitled "The
Shadow of Ashlydyat." It is entirely impossible to present any adequate
idea of the confusion and bizarrerie of that nursery. One must think of
the most confused aspect of human life that one has ever known--say, a
Suffrage attack upon the Houses of Parliament, or a Channel steamer on a
Thursday morning, and then of the next most confused aspect. Then one
must place them together and confess defeat. Mrs. Rochester was not, as
I have said, very frequently to be found in her children's nursery, but
she managed, nevertheless, to pervade the house, from cellar to garret,
with her spirit. Toys were everywhere--dolls and trains and soldiers,
bricks and puzzles and animals, cardboard boxes, articles of feminine
attire, a zinc bath, two cats, a cage with white mice, a pile of books
resting in a dazzling pyramid on the very edge of the table, two glass
jars containing minute fish of the new variety, and a bowl with
goldfish. There were many other things, forgotten by me.

Lucy, her pigtails neatly arranged, sat near the window and pretended to
be reading that fascinating story, "The Pillars of the House." I say
pretending, because Lucy did not care about reading at any time, and
especially disliked the works of Charlotte Mary Yonge, but she thought
that it looked well that she and nurse should be engaged upon literature
whilst the rest of the world rioted and gambolled their time away. There
was no one who at the moment could watch and admire her fine spirit, but
you never knew who might come in.

The rioting and gambolling consisted in the attempts of Robert, Dorothy,
and Roger, to give a realistic presentation to an audience of one,
namely, the infant Timothy, of the life of the Red Indians and their
Squaws. Underneath the nursery table, with a tablecloth, some chairs and
a concertina, they were presenting an admirable and entirely engrossing