ittle child;
Pity my simplicity."--

Her fingers felt and tried the brass handles. Yes, a real chest of
drawers! And the washstand folded up in a box, and in place of a chair
was a rack with netting in which to lay their garments for the night!
"God bless dear Clem, and grandfather."--What was she saying?
Their grandfather was dead, and praying for dead people was wicked.
Susannah had once caught her praying for her mother, and had told her that
it was wicked, with a decisiveness that closed all argument. None the
less she had prayed for her mother since then--once or twice, perhaps half
a dozen times--though slily and in a terror of being punished tor it and
sent to hell. "And Susannah, and Martha, and Elizabeth Jane,"--this was
the housemaid--"and Peter Benny, and Jim Tregay, and all kind friends and
relations,"--including Uncle Sam and that odious boy of his? Well, they
might go down in the list; but she wouldn't pretend to like them.

"Ready, my dears?" asked Uncle Purchase from outside. "Sing out when
you're in bed, and I'll come and dowse the lights."

He did so, and stood for a moment hesitating, scarcely visible in the
faint radiance cast through the doorway by the lamp in his own cabin.
Maybe the proper thing would be to give them a kiss apiece? He could not
be sure, being a childless man. He ended by saying good-night so gruffly
that Myra fancied he must be in a bad temper.

"Clem!" she whispered, after lying still for a while, staring into
darkness. "Clem!"

But Clem was already sound asleep.

She sighed and turned on her pillow. She had wanted to discuss with him a
thought that vexed her. Did folks love one another when they grew up?
And, if so, how did they manage it, seeing that so few grownups had
anything lovable about them? Clem and she, of course, would go on loving
each other always; but that was different. When one grown-up person died,
were the others really sorry? No one seemed sorry for her grandfather--no
one--except, perhaps, Peter Benny. . . .

For two days the children lived an enchanted life, interrupted only by a
visit to Miss de Gruchy, the dressmaker across the water, and by a
miserable two hours in which they were supposed to entertain their Cousin
Calvin, who had been sent to play with them. The boy--he was about a year
older than Myra--greeted them with an air of high importance.

"I've seen the corp!" he announced in an ogreish whisper.

Myra had the sen