just a moment. These little spells never last long."

Mrs. Sherman was right. In a few moments Lloyd came up the walk,
singing.

"I wish you'd tell me a pink story," she said, coaxingly, as she leaned
against her mother's knee.

"Not now, dear; don't you see that I am busy talking to Aunt Sally? Run
and ask Mom Beck for one."

"What on earth does she mean by a pink story?" asked Mrs. Tyler.

"Oh, she is so fond of colours. She is always asking for a pink or a
blue or a white story. She wants everything in the story tinged with
whatever colour she chooses,--dresses, parasols, flowers, sky, even the
icing on the cakes and the paper on the walls."

"What an odd little thing she is!" exclaimed Mrs. Tyler. "Isn't she lots
of company for you?"

She need not have asked that question if she could have seen them that
evening, sitting together in the early twilight.

Lloyd was in her mother's lap, leaning her head against her shoulder
as they rocked slowly back and forth on the dark porch.

There was an occasional rattle of wheels along the road, a twitter of
sleepy birds, a distant croaking of frogs.