"They must _each_ have one," said Grandpapa solemnly. And so it had to
be. In consequence of which fine sense of justice and firm determination
on the part of the babies, they went on "not being told apart" till, as
I said, the day came when Marmaduke's attire began to be cut after a
different fashion, and by degrees he arrived at his present dignity of
nankin suits complete. Such funny suits you would think them
now--funnier even than Pamela's white frock, with its skirt to the
ankles and blue-sashed waist up close under the arm-pits, for even if
she walked in just as I describe her you would only call her "a
Kate-Greenway-dressed little girl." But Marmaduke's light yellow
trousers, buttoning up _over_ his waistcoat, with bright brass buttons,
and open yellow jacket to match, would look odd. Especially on such a
very little boy--for he and Pamela, as they stand there with their
flaxen hair falling over their shoulders and their very blue eyes gazing
solemnly before them, wondering when either of the old people will think
fit to speak to "us"--Pamela and he are only "six last birfday."

All this time Grandpapa is in happy--no, I won't say "happy," for the
old gentleman is always, to give him his due, pleased to welcome the
children to his presence, "at the right time and in the right manner,"
be it understood--in _complete_ unconsciousness of their near
neighbourhood. There was nothing to reveal it; they had not left the
door open so as to cause a draught, for Grandpapa abhorred draughts;
they were as still and quiet as two little mice, when mice _are_ quiet
that is to say. For often in the middle of the night, when my sleep has
been disturbed by these same little animals who have been held up as a
model for never disturbing any one, I have wondered how they gained this
distinction! "When mouses is quiet, perhaps it's cos they isn't there,"
said a little boy I know, and the remark seems to me worthy of deep
consideration.