t little
arm round either one or other of us, and cuddle as close as she possibly
could; the least movement on our part, however, she deeply resented and
feared. A limpet on a rock is nothing to this baby. Her very toes can
cling.

Sarala's private name is Pickles. Her twin in mischief is Puck, and she,
too, is fond of paying visits to the bungalow. But she always comes as a
surprise; she never announces herself. You are busy with your back to
the door when that curious feeling, a sense of not being quite alone,
comes over you, and you turn and see an elfish thing, very still and
small and shy, but with eyes so comical that Puck is the only possible
name by which she could be called. Seen unexpectedly, playing among the
flowers in a fragment of green garment washed to the softness of a
tulip leaf, you feel she only needs a pair of small wings and a wand to
be entirely in character.

Puck has none of Pickles' faults, and a good many of her virtues. She is
a most good-tempered little person, loving to be loved, but equally
delighted that others should share the petting. She gives up to
everybody, and smiles her way through life; such a comical little mouth
it is, to match the comical eyes. All she ever asks with insistence is
somewhere to play. Bereft of room to play, Puck might become
disagreeable, though a disagreeable Puck is something unimaginable.
Yesterday it was needful to keep her in the shade; and as a special
policeman-nurse could not be told off to keep watch over her, she was
tied by a long string to the nursery door. At first she was sorely
distressed; but presently the comic side struck her, and she sat down
and began to tie herself up more securely. If they do such things at all
they should do them better, she seemed to think. And this is Puck all
through. She will find the laugh hidden in things, if she can. Sometimes
in her eagerness to make everybody as happy as she is herself she gets
into serious trouble. She was hardly able to walk when she was
discovered comforting a crying infant by taking a bottle of milk from an
older babe (who, according to her thinking, had had enough) and giving
it to the younger one who seemed to need it more. What the older baby
said is not recorded.

Puck in trouble is a pitiful sight. She tries not to give in to feelings
of depression. She screws her smiling lips tight, twists her face into a
pucker, and shuts her eyes till you only see two slits marked by the
curly eye