hells."

"Oh, not my shells," cried Amy, aggrieved.

"That's selfish of you," said Tom; "but I have a proper collection, and
you haven't. You can have nurse," he generously added.

"Oh no, not nurse," said Dick.

"And that's greedy," said Tom: "you want every one."

"Yes, I do," said Dick sturdily.

"Us two," said Dot suddenly, "have adopted you for our mother. It is the
only way we can have you for our own."

"You can't have her," cried Tom indignantly; "she's ours."

"That doesn't matter," said Dot; "us two have settled it. She can't help
us adopting her. We are her kind of children now.--Aren't we, father?"

Mr. Amherst removed the twins before it came to blows, and left the
excited family sitting silently in the dusky room.

Mrs. Beauchamp, very tired and peaceful, was drawing a dispirited darning
needle through very worn stockings, and by Susie's sofa sat an upright
figure with keen eyes and silver hair.

"The little lady will be sleeping soon," he said. He rose and held out a
horny hand.

"In a softer bed than she had last night," said Mrs. Beauchamp gently.

"Well, as we make our bed so we lie in it," he said.

"Yes," said Susie, in a subdued voice.

He paused and smiled at her.

"But so much we didn't know of went to the making of the bed," he said,
"that perhaps little missy lay softly enough after all."

* * * * *

"It is a pity about Miss Susie's boot," nurse said regretfully. "Of
course it's a mercy the poor child was brought back safe; and never
shall I forget what we suffered unknowing. But talking of beds brings
back that boot to me, and it's no use telling me it doesn't matter, for
it's sheer waste of the pair."

* * * * *

Life in London seemed rather tame to the little Beauchamps after that
summer holiday, with the paddling and the boats, the rocks and the
island! They took as much of it all home as they could convey in biscuit
tins, and buckets, and cardboard boxes. But, after all, one cannot shut
the ocean into a glass aquarium or hold the sunset on a palette, and
there were many things that only memory could bring back to them--the
sea-birds wheeling against the blue sky, for instance, the ebbing and
flowing tide, the miles of seaweed on the beach, and one night the memory
of which will only die with Susie.

Dick has long forgotten it, for he lay "very softly" in the bed that
Susie made for him; but at any moment