'The hanging-down thing is _such_ a pretty shape!'

'Yes, the fleur-de-lys is a pretty shape. It's the flower of France, you
know--just as the thistle is the----'

'There, now!' A penetrating whisper came from the other bed. 'She's
_gone_.'

'It's you who've been keeping her here, you know.' Miss Levering bent
her neat, dark head over the little girl, and the gleaming jewels swung
forward.

'Yes,' said Cecil, in a tone of grandfatherly disgust; 'yelling like a
wild Indian.'

'Well, you _cried_,' said his sister--'just because a feather pillow hit
you.' Her eye never once left the glittering gaud.

'You see, Cecil is younger than you,' Miss Levering reminded her.

'Yes,' said Sara, with conscious superiority--'a whole year and eight
months. But even when I was young _I_ had sense.'

Miss Levering laughed. 'You're a horrid little Pharisee--and as wild as
a young colt.' Contrary to received canons, the visitor seemed to find
something reassuring in the latter reflection, for she kissed the small,
self-righteous face.

'You just ought to have seen Sara this morning!' Cecil chuckled, with a
generous admiration in family achievements. 'We waked up early, and Sara
said, "Let's go mountaineering." So we did. All over the rocks and
presserpittses.' He waved his hand comprehensively at the rugged scenery
of the night-nursery.

'Of course we had to pile up the chairs and things,' his sister
explained.

'And the coal scuttle.'

'And we made snow mountains out of the pillows. When the chairs wobbled,
the coal and the pillows kept falling about; it was quite a real
avalanche,' Sara said conversationally.

'I should think so,' agreed the guest.

'Yes; and it was glorious when Sara excaped to the top of the wardrobe.'

'To the w----' Miss Levering gasped.

'Yes. We were having the most perfectly fascinating time----' Sara took
up the tale.

But Cecil suddenly sat bolt upright, his little face quite pink with
excitement at recollection of these Alpine exploits.

'Yes, Sara had come down off the wardrobe--she'd been sitting on the
carved piece--she says that's the Schreckhorn!--but she'd come down off
it, and we was just jumping about all those mountains like two
shamrocks----'

'Like what?'

'--when _she_ came in.'

'Yes,' agreed Sara. 'Just when we're happiest _she_ always comes
interfiddling.'

'Oh, Sara mine, I rather like you!' said Miss Levering, laying her
laughing face against the tousled hair.