hat is not a real bed. We all remember that joy. Except for
that one child, it is an every-day thing and fraught with no particular
excitement. The servants, for instance, in a house where children are
an every-day thing, remain quite calm, if good tempered, when a visiting
child is expected, and the kitchen-maid, no doubt, cleans the doorstep
as usual, and, no doubt, takes in the milk. But this I know, that if I
had happened to possess such a thing when Betty and Hugh were coming
to stay, my doorstep would never have been cleaned. For once I was
glad that I depended on the services of a very small boy, who thinks
he cleans it. Staid and level-headed as were my maids, they answered no
bells that morning, which was perhaps natural, as I believe none ring
up to the nursery. Of course they had to be interested in Nannie's
arrangements.

It was a hot August day, I remember, and I sat at the window writing, or
pretending to write. As a matter of fact, I was listening. Among other
things to the "Austrian Anthem," played over and over again, first right
hand, then left, then both, but not together, by, I guessed, a child
about ten years old, next door.

Poor, hot child, how I pitied her.

"Never mind," I thought, "take courage, seaside time is coming. Within
a few days, no doubt, an omnibus will come to the door empty, to go away
full, filled with luggage, crowned by a perambulator and a baby's bath!"
It is only a woman who can travel with a perambulator and a bath; they
are the epitome of motherhood. A father is always too busy to go by that
particular train.

I heard the twitter of sparrows, the jingle of bells, the hooting of a
siren, or was it my neighbor singing "A rose I gave to you"? of course
it was,--the rumble of a post-office van, and the cry of children's
voices, rather peevish voices, poor mites! Never mind, seaside time is
coming.

Listening more intently, I beard in the far distance, yet distinct, the
cries of the children who ought to go to the seaside, children who have
never been to the seaside, never paddled, never built castles, never
caught crabs, never seen sea-anemones or starfish, children whose faces
are wan and whose mothers are too tired to be kind to them. It is often
that, I am sure, too tired to be kind!

Listening again, I heard faintly--it is not with the ears that one hears
these things--the unuttered complaints of those tired mothers, worn-out
women, despairing men, and the singing, in