copings she could peer out at the ships in the harbor and the shining
green of Battery Park. The nursery had a fireplace just opposite the
door that connected with the tiny room in which the old French woman
slept. Both these rooms had been decorated with a landscape paper
peopled with Watteau shepherds and shepherdesses and oft-repeated
methodical groups of lambs. On the cold mornings she was bathed beside
the fire--which she very much hated--and once when she was especially
angry at the sharp dash of the bath sponge against her thin shoulders
she clutched at the flabby dripping thing with all her might and sent
it hurtling through the doorway where it splashed against the side
wall of the tiny room and smudged out the flock of a simpering
shepherdess. And instead of being sorry that she had obliterated the
paper lambs she remembers shaking her fist at the discolored spot and
shrieking "Nevaire come back, nevaire!"

Mademoiselle D'Ormy made her tell Maman. Mademoiselle's disapproval
made it seem an admirable crime until Maman said ever se gently,

"I'm sorry you were unhappy!"

"_I was happy_," persisted Felicia, "I was proud, proud, proud when I
threw it!"

"But you made Mademoiselle unhappy and you've made me unhappy--and you
can't be truly happy, Felicia, when you're making some one else
unhappy--"

Felicia discovered that she couldn't. Not with Maman's gentle eyes
looking into hers, so she threw herself on her knees and kissed her
mother's hand. Just as she had seen her grandfather kiss it.