g down into her Teacup.

Sara examined herself anxiously. She knew it was something about
herself, because the Plynck's tone was exactly like Mother's when she
wished to remind Sara, without seeming officious, that she had not
wiped her feet on the mat, or spread out her napkin, or remembered to
say "Thank you" at the exact psychological moment.

Sara was extremely anxious to please the Plynck, because she thought
her so pensive and pretty; but, try as she would, she couldn't think
what she had forgotten to do.

"Does a little girl wear her dimples in The House?" asked the Plynck,
still more gently.

"Oh, of course not!" said Sara, taking them off hastily. But she could
not help adding, as she looked around appreciatively at the silver
bushes and the blue plush grass and the alabaster moon-dial by the
fountain, "But this isn't The House, is it?"

"Isn't it?" asked the Plynck, glancing uneasily about her. What she
saw startled her so much that she dropped her Teacup. Of course it
flew up to a higher branch and balanced itself there instead of
falling; but the poor little thing was so round and fat,
that--especially as it hadn't any feet--it had some difficulty at
first in perching. As for the Plynck, she seemed so embarrassed over
her mistake that Sara felt dreadfully uncomfortable for her.
Recovering herself, however, in a moment, she said in her sweet,
gentle way,

"Well, dear, you wouldn't want the Zizzes to fall into them, even if
this isn't The House--would you?"

Sara hadn't noticed until then that the air was full of Zizzes; but
the minute she saw their darling little vibrating wings she knew that
she wouldn't for anything have one of them come to grief in her
dimples. They were more like hummingbirds than anything she had ever
seen outside of her head, but of course they were not nearly so large;
most of them were about a millionth-part as large as a small mosquito.
She noticed, too, that their tails were bitter. If it had not been for
the bitterness of their tails, she would not have felt so uneasy about
them; as it was, she held the dimples tight in her hand, with the
concave side next her palm.

"Avrillia's at home," said the Plynck gently, with her eyes on her
Teacup, which she was gradually charming back into her hand. (Her
hands were feet, you know, like a nightingale's, only golden; but she
called them hands in the afternoon, to match her Teacup.) The timid
little thing was fluttering back, comi