you,--Miss Malgregor,--not to interrupt me again!" With excessive
deliberateness she went back to the first line of her poem and began
all over again,

Now I sit me down to nap,
All curled up in a Nursie's lap,
If _she_ should die before I wake,
Give her--give her ten cents--for Jesus' sake!

"Why that's a--a cunning little prayer," yawned the White Linen Nurse.
Most certainly of course she would have smiled if the yawn hadn't caught
her first. But now in the middle of the yawn it was a great deal easier
to repeat the "very cunning" than to force her lips into any new
expression. "Very cunning--very cunning," she kept crooning
conscientiously.

Modestly like some other successful authors the Little Girl flapped her
eyelids languidly open and shut for three or four times before she
acknowledged the compliment. "Oh, cunning as any of 'em," she admitted
off-handishly. Only once again did she open either mouth or eyes, and
this time it was merely one eye and half a mouth. "Do my fat iron
braces--hurt you?" she mumbled drowsily.

"Yes, a little," conceded the White Linen Nurse.

"Ha! They hurt me--all the time!" gibed the Little Girl.

Five minutes later, the child who didn't particularly care about being
held, and the girl who didn't particularly care about holding her, were
fast asleep in each other's arms,--a naughty, nagging, restive little