time,' we should be much obliged; though of course we understand that
all the stories in the world can't commence that way, delightful as it
would be."

The Person with a Story smiles obligingly (at least it is to be hoped
that she does), and retires into a little corner of her brain, to
rummage there for something just fitted to the occasion. That same
little corner is densely populated, if she is a lover of children. In
it are all sorts of heroic dogs, wonderful monkeys, intelligent cats,
naughty kittens; virtues masquerading seductively as fairies, and
vices hiding in imps; birds agreeing and disagreeing in their little
nests, and inevitable small boys in the act of robbing them; busy bees
laying up their winter stores, and idle butterflies disgracefully
neglecting to do the same; and then a troop of lost children,
disobedient children, and lazy, industrious, generous, or heedless
ones, waiting to furnish the thrilling climaxes. The Story-Teller
selects a hero or heroine out of this motley crowd,--all longing to be
introduced to Bright-Eye, Fine-Ear, Kind-Heart, and Sweet-Lips,--and
speedily the drama opens.

Did Rachel ever have such an audience? I trow not. Rachel never had
tiny hands snuggling into hers in "the very best part of the story,"
nor was she near enough her hearers to mark the thousand shades of
expression that chased each other across their faces,--supposing they
had any expression, which is doubtful. Rachel never saw dimples
lurking in the ambush of rosy cheeks, and popping in and out in such a
distracting manner that she felt like punctuating her discourse with
kisses! Her dull, conventional, grown-up hearers bent a little forward
in their seats, perhaps, and compelled by her magic power laughed and
cried in the right places; but their eyes never shone with that starry