him fondly.

Miss Stone bent above the book, with the smile of understanding that
always lay between them. When Betty Harris thought about God, he seemed
always, somehow, like Miss Stone's smile--but bigger--because he filled
the whole earth. She lifted her hand and stroked the cheek bending above
her book. "I'm making a place for them all," she said. "It's a kind of
story--" She drew a sigh of quick delight.

Miss Stone closed the book decisively, touching the flushed face with
her fingers. "Put it away, child--and the pictures. We're going to
drive."

"Yes--Nono." It was her own pet name for Miss Stone, and she gave a
little quick nod, closing the book with happy eyes. But she waited a
moment, lugging the book to her and looking at the scattered gods in the
great window, before she walked demurely across and began gathering them
up--a little puzzled frown between her eyes. "I suppose I couldn't leave
them scattered around?" she suggested politely.

Miss Stone smiled a little head-shake, and the child bent again to her
work. "I don't like to pick up," she said softly. "It's more interesting
not to pick up--ever." She lifted her face from a print of Apollo and
looked at Miss Stone intently. "There might be gods that could pick
up--pick themselves up, perhaps--?" It was a polite suggestion--but
there was a look in the dark face--the look of the meat-packer's
daughter--something that darted ahead and compelled gods to pick
themselves up. She bent again, the little sigh checking itself on her
lip. Miss Stone did not like to have little girls object--and it was not
polite, and besides you _had_ to take care of things--your own things.