eant. It was the little finger with that dignotion on the
nail, which showed that she had a journey to go.

CHAPTER II.

ON THE WING--SUNFLOWER SAINTS--DEW-DRENCHED--A BAD NIGHT--A
BAD HEADACHE--REGULAR REGIMEN IN GRANDMAMMA'S YOUNG
DAYS--TIRED NATURE'S SWEET RESTORER--A SINFUL WASTE OF
CANDLE-GREASE.

The Sunflowers were in bloom when Margery went away; and the swallows
were on the wing. The garden was full of them all the morning, and
when she had gone, they went too. They had been restless for days
past, so I dare say they had dignotions of their own, that they had a
journey to go as well as Margery.

But when they were gone, and she was gone, the garden felt very
lonely. The Sunflowers stretched out their round faces just as if they
were looking to see if the cab was coming back; and there was a robin,
which kept hopping on and off the pump and peeping about with his
eyes, as if he could not imagine what had become of all the swallows.

And Margery's black cat came and mewed to me, and rubbed itself
against my pinafore, and walked up and down with me till I went in and
got the "Ancient Mariner" and my little chair, and came back and read
to the Sunflowers.

Sunflowers are quite as good as dolls to play with. Margery and I
think them better in some ways. You can't move them about unless you
pick them; but then they will stand of themselves, which dolls will
not. You can give them names just as well, and you can teach them
lessons just as well. They will grow, which dolls won't; and they
really live and die, which dolls don't. In fact, for tallness, they
are rather like grown-up people. Then more come out, which is nice;
and you see the little Sunflowers growing into big ones, which you
can't see with dolls.

We can play a Sunday game with the Sunflowers. We do not have any of
our toys on Sunday, except in winter, when we have Noah's Ark. In the
summer we may go in the garden between the services, and we always
walk up and down together and play with the Sunflowers.

The Sunday Sunflower game is calling them after the black-letter
saints in the Kalendar, and reading about them in a very old book--a
big one with a black leather binding--in the attic, called _Lives of
the Saints_. I read, and then I tell it to Margery as we walk up and
down, and say--"This is St. Prisca, this is St. Fabian, this is St.
Agnes, this is St. Agatha, and this is St. Valentine"--and so on.

What made us fir