know, my dear," she said, turning to Sara, "that no Snimmy can endure
to see a mortal sit down. It simply breaks their hearts. See, he's
even forgotten about the dimples."

And indeed, the Snimmy was standing before her, overcome by remorse.
He was holding his shoe in his hand in the most gentlemanly manner,
and Sara forgave him at once when she saw how sorry and ashamed he
was.

"I--hope you'll try to--to--to excuse me, Miss," he sobbed, humbly
offering her a handful of gum-drops. "Them dimples--" here, for a
moment, his nose began to wink and his feet pranced a little, but he
looked closely to see that she was still sitting down, and controlled
himself. "Them dimples--" he began again; but he could say no more.
The gum-drops began falling all around like hail-stones, so fast that
Sara felt that she ought to help him all she could--without getting
up--to get them into his vest-pocket.

The clatter of the gum-drops again attracted the attention of the
Plynck's Echo, who said, kindly, "Go and take a nap, now, Snimmy, and
you'll feel better."

The Snimmy lifted his shoe and tried to reply, but he only gave a
respectful sob. So he turned away and crept back to his home in the
prose-bush--where, all this time, his wife had been sitting in plain
sight on her own toadstool, grimly hemming the doorknob. At her feet
lay her faithful Snoodle.

Up to this time, Sara had not ventured to address the Teacup. But, as
she looked around and saw her still sitting there, so pleasant and