_ be quite perfect. Oh, grandmother dear," she went on, clasping
her hands in entreaty, "just tell me this, _do_ you ever tell stories?"

Grandmother shook her head solemnly. "I _hope_ not, my dear child," she
said, but Molly detected the fun through the solemnity. She gave a
wriggle.

"Now you're laughing at me," she said. "You _know_ I don't mean that
kind. I mean do you ever tell real stories--not real, I don't mean, for
very often the nicest aren't real, about fairies, you know--but you know
the sort of stories I mean. You would look so beautiful telling stories,
wouldn't she now, Sylvia?"

"And the stories would be beautiful if I told them--eh, Molly?"

"Yes, I am sure they would be. _Will_ you think of some?"

"We'll see," said grandmother. "Anyway there's no time for stories at
present. You have ever so much to think of with all the travelling that
is before you. Wait till we get to Chalet, and then we'll see."

"I like _your_ 'we'll see,'" said Molly. "Some people's 'we'll see,' just
means, 'I can't be troubled,' or, 'don't bother.' But I think _your_
'we'll see' sounds nice, grandmother dear."

"I am glad you think so, grand-daughter dear; and now, what about going
to bed? It is only seven, but if you are tired?"

"But we are not a bit tired," said Molly.

"We never go to bed till half-past eight, and Ralph at nine," said
Sylvia.

The word "bed" had started a new flow of ideas in Molly's brain.

"Grandmother," she said, growing all at once very grave, "that reminds me
of one thing I wanted to ask you; do the tops of the beds ever come down
now in Paris?"

"'Do the tops of the beds in Paris ever come down?'" repeated
grandmother. "My dear child, what _do_ you mean?"

"It was a story she heard," began Sylvia, in explanation.

"About somebody being suffocated in Paris by the top of the bed coming
down," continued Ralph.

"It was robbers that wanted to steal his money," added Molly.

Grandmother began to look less mystified. "Oh, _that_ old story!" she
said. "But how did you hear it? I remember it when I was a little girl;
it really happened to a friend of my grandfather's, and afterwards I came
across it in a little book about dogs. 'Fidelity of dogs,' was the name
of it, I think. The dog saved the traveller's life by dragging him out of
the bed."

"Yes," said aunty, "I remember that book too. It was among your old
child's books, mother. A queer little musty brown volume, and I remember
how th