Then another time, covering me with dire confusion, "Father thinks
that such a pretty story, Miss Cameron, the one about Gretchen. He
said I ought to try and remember it, and write it down; and then he
asked if you had really made it up in your head."

"Oh, Flurry, that silly little story?"

"Not silly at all," retorted Flurry, with a little heat; "father had
a headache, and he could not talk to me, so I told him stories to
send him to sleep, and I thought he would like dear little Gretchen.
He never went to sleep after all, but his eyes were wide open,
staring at the fire; and then he told me he had been thinking of dear
mamma, and he thought I should be very like her some day. And then he
thanked me for my pretty stories, and then tiresome old nursie
fetched me to bed."

That stupid little tale! To think of Mr. Lucas listening to that. I
was not a very inventive storyteller, though I could warm into
eloquence on occasions, but Flurry's demand was so excessive that I
hit on a capital plan at last.

I created a wonderful child heroine, and called her Juliet and told
a little fresh piece of her history every day. Never was there such a
child for impossible adventures and hairbreadth escapes; what that
unfortunate little creature went through was known only to Flurry and
me.

She grew to love Juliet like a make-believe sister of her own, and
talked of her at last as a living child. What long moral