The servants took care of the house for you, and brought you things to
eat, and made beds for you, and fed the horses and ironed clothes... but
your own things--the gods and temples and scrapbooks and paste that you
left lying about--you had to put away yourself! Her fingers found the
paste-tube and screwed it firmly in place--with a little twist of the
small mouth--and hovered above the prints with quick touch. The servants
did things--other things. Constance mended your clothes and dressed you,
and Marie served you at table, and sometimes she brought a nice little
lunch if you were hungry--and you and Miss Stone had it together on the
school table--but no one ever--ever--_ever_--picked up your playthings
for you. She thrust the last god into his box and closed the lid firmly.
Then she looked up. She was alone in the big room... in the next room
she could hear Miss Stone moving softly, getting ready for the drive.
She slipped from her seat and stood in the window, looking out--far
ahead the lake stretched--dancing with green waves and little white
edges--and down below, the horses curved their great necks that
glistened in the sun--and the harness caught gleams of light. The
child's eyes dwelt on them happily. They were her very own, Pollux and
Castor--and she was going driving--driving in the sun. She hummed a
little tune, standing looking down at them.

Behind her stretched the great room--high-ceiled and wide, and furnished
for a princess--a child princess. Its canopied bed and royal draperies
had come across the seas from a royal house--the children of kings
had slept in it before Betty Harris. The high walls were covered with
priceless decoration--yet like a child in every line. It was Betty's
own place in the great house--and the little room adjoining, where Miss
Stone slept, was a part of it, clear and fine in its lines and in the
bare quiet of the walls. Betty liked to slip away into Miss Stone's
room--and stand very still, looking about her, hardly breathing. It was