not
caring to have it tumbling on her shoulders. "I think it is nearly time
for me to go now," she was beginning, when she heard a tiny sob, and
looking down, saw a very small creature looking up at her with round
blue eyes full of tears. "Why, darling, what is the matter?" she asked,
stooping, and lifting the baby in her strong young arms.

"I--wanted--" Here came another sob.

"What did you want? Come, we'll sit here by the window, and you shall
tell me all about it."

"Ze uzzers told you sings, and--I--wanted--to tell you sings--too!"

"Well, pet!" said Hildegarde, drying the tears, and kissing the round
velvet cheek, "tell me then!"

"Ain't got no--sings--to tell!" And another outburst threatened; but
Hilda intervened hastily.

"Oh, yes, I am sure you have things to tell, lots of things; only you
couldn't think of them for a minute. What did you have for breakfast
this morning?"

Baby looked doubtful. "Dat ain't a sing!"

"Yes, it is," said Hildegarde, boldly. "Come, now! I had a mutton chop.
What did you have?"

"Beef tea," was the reply, with a brightening look of retrospective
cheer, "and toasty strips!"

"_Oh_, how good!" cried Hilda. "I wish I had some. And what are you
going to have for dinner?"

"Woast tsicken!" and here at last came a smile, which broadened into a
laugh and ended in a chuckle, as Hilda performed a pantomime expressing
rapture.

"I never heard of anything so good!" she cried. "And what are you going
to eat it with,--two little sticks?"

"No-o!" cried Baby, with a disdainful laugh. "Wiz a worky, a weal
worky."

"A walk!" said Hildegarde, puzzled.

"Es!" said Baby, proudly. "A atta worky, dess like people's!"

"Please, he means fork!" said a little girl, sidling up with a finger in
her mouth. "Please, he's my brother, and we've both had tripod fever;
and we're going home to-morrow."

"And the young lady must go home now," said Mrs. Murray, laying a kind
hand on the little one's shoulder. "The man has come for you, Miss
Grahame, and I don't know how to thank you enough for all the pleasure
you have given these dear children."

"Oh, no!" cried Hildegarde. "Please don't! It is I who must thank you
and the children and all. I wish Rose--I wish my friend had come. She
would have known; she would have said just the right thing to each one.
Next time I shall bring her."

But "Nein! Muessen selbst kommen!" cried Fritzerl; and "You come, Lady!"
shouted all the others. And as H