know," said grandmother;
"why should I wish to turn my boy and girl children into frogs and mice?"

"If we were naughty, I meant," said Molly. "Oh, Sylvia, you explain--I
always say things the wrong way."

"It was I that said you looked like a fairy godmother," said Sylvia,
blushing furiously, "and that put it into Molly's head about the frogs
and mice."

"But the only fairy godmother _I_ remember that did these wonderful
things turned mice into horses to please her god-daughter. Have you not
got hold of the wrong end of the story, Molly?" said grandmother.

"The wrong end and beginning and middle too, I should say," observed
Ralph.

"Yes, grandmother dear, I always do," said Molly, complacently. "I never
remember stories or anything the right way, my head is so funnily made."

"When you can't find your gloves, because you didn't put them away
carefully, is it the fault of the shape of the chest of drawers?"
inquired grandmother quietly.

"Yes, I suppose so,--at least, no, I mean, of course it isn't," replied
Molly, taking heed to her words half-way through, when she saw that they
were all laughing at her.

Grandmother smiled, but said no more.

"What a wool-gathering little brain it is," she said to herself.

When she smiled, all the children agreed together afterwards, she looked
more like a fairy godmother than ever. She was really a _very_ pretty old
lady. Never very tall, with age she had grown smaller, though still
upright as a dart; the "November roses" in her cheeks were of their kind
as sweet as the June ones that nestled there long ago--ah! so long ago
now; and the look in her eyes had a tenderness and depth which can only
come from a life of unselfishness, of joy and much sorrow too--a life
whose lessons have been well and dutifully learnt, and of which none has
been more thoroughly taken home than that of gentle judgment of, and much
patience with, others.

While they are all finishing their tea, would you, my boy and girl
friends, like to know who they were--these three, Ralph, Sylvia, and
Molly, whom I want to tell you about, and whom I hope you will love? When
I was a little girl I liked to know exactly about the children in my
books, each of whom had his or her distinct place in my affections. I
liked to know their names, their ages, all about their homes and their
relations _most_ exactly, and more than once I was laughed at for writing
out a sort of genealogical tree of some of my little f