om, conceivably the home of royalty. Standing
timidly at the door, she surveyed the golden chairs, the gorgeous
ceiling and the deep-toned pictures with a gaze which absorbed every
detail. At last she whispered, "Is this the Queen's room?"

"Yes," I replied. "If the Queen should come to Chicago she would live
here," and I comforted myself by saying, "You shall have your hour of
wonder and romance, even at the expense of a prevarication."

With a sigh she turned away, or rather permitted me to lead her away.
"I'm glad I saw it," she said. "Will the Queen ever come to Chicago
again?"

"Yes, next spring she will come again," I answered, thus feeding her
illusion without a moment's hesitation or a particle of remorse.

Her love of royal robes, gold chariots and Queens' houses did not
prevent her from listening with deep delight while I read _Jock
Johnstone, the Tinkler Lad_, or sang _O'er the Hills In Legions, Boys_.
She loved most of the songs I was accustomed to sing but certain of the
lines vaguely distressed her. She could not endure the pathos of Nellie
Gray.

"Oh, my poor Nellie Gray
They have taken you away
And I'll never see my darling any more"

put her into deepest anguish.

"_Why_ did they take her away?" she sobbed. "Didn't they _ever_ see her
any more?"

Only after I explained that they met "down the river" and were very
happy ever afterward, would she permit me to finish the ballad. She was
similarly troubled by the words,

"I can hear the children calling
I can see their sad tears falling."

"_Why_ are the children calling?" she demanded.

She had a curious horror of anything abnormal. Once I took her to see
"Alice in Wonderland" thinking that this would be an enchanting
experience for her. Not only was it intolerably repellent to her, it was
terrifying, and when the bodies of the characters suddenly lengthened,
she sought refuge under the seat. All deformities, grotesqueries were to
her horrible, appalling. She refused to look at the actors and at last I
took her away.

One afternoon as we were in the garden together she called to me.
"Poppie, see the dead birdie!"

On looking I saw a little dead song sparrow. "It's been here all the
night and all the day, Poppie. It fell out of the tree when Eddie
shooted it. Put it up in the tree again, Poppie."

She seemed to think that if it were put back into its home it would go
on living and singing. I don't know why this should