I go to bed. Do you have _reg'lar_ ones, Daisy?" with a
secret little hope that she didn't. "_I'm_ going to have a reg'lar
one."

"Huh!--chase all 'round the room an' turn somersaults an' be highway
robberers? An' take the hair-pins out o' your mother's hair an'
_hide_ in it--what?"

Murray gasped a little at the picture of that kind of a lark. It was
difficult to imagine himself chasing 'round the room or being a
highwayman; and as for somersaults--he glanced uneasily over his
shoulder, as if Sheelah might be looking and read "somersaults"
through the back of his head. For once he had almost turned one and
Sheelah had found him in the middle of it and said pointed things. In
Sheelah's code of etiquette there were no somersaults in the "s"
column.

"It's a reg'lar lark to hide in your mother's hair," was going on the
girl child's voice. "Yes, sir, that's the reg'larest kind!"

Murray gasped again, harder. For that kind took away his breath
altogether and made him feel a little dizzy, as if he were--were
_doing it now_--hiding in his mother's hair! It was soft, beautiful,
gold-colored hair, and there was a great deal of it--oh, plenty to
hide in! He shut his eyes and felt it all about him and soft against
his face, and smelled the faint fragrance of it. The dizziness was
sweet.

Yes, that must be the reg'larest kind of a lark, but Murray did not
deceive himself, once the dream was over. He knew _that_ kind was not
waiting for him at the end of this long day. But a lark was waiting,
anyway--a plain lark. It might have been the bird kind in his little
heart now, singing for joy at the prospect.

Impatience seized upon Murray. He wanted this little neighbor's
half-hour to be up, so that he could go in and watch the clock. He
wanted Sheelah to come out here, for that would mean it was ten
o'clock; she always came at ten. He wanted it to be noon, to be
afternoon, to be _night!_ The most beautiful time in his rather
monotonous little life was down there at the foot of the day, and he
was creeping towards it on the lagging hours. He was like a little
traveller on a dreary plain, with the first ecstatic glimpse of a
hill ahead.

Murray in his childish way had been in love a long time, but he had
never got very near his dear lady. He had watched her a little way
off and wondered at the gracious beauty of her, and loved her eyes
and her lips and her soft, gold-colored hair. He had never--oh,
never--been near enough to b