climb to the very tree-top; there was the
wilderness of bamboo and cane where she had been Crusoe; the ancient,
broadleaved cactus on which she had scratched their names and drawn
their portraits; here, the high aloe that had such a mysterious charm
for you, because you never knew when the hundred years might expire and
the aloe burst into flower. Here again was the old fig tree with the
rounded, polished boughs, from which, seated as in a cradle, she had
played Juliet to Pin's Romeo, and vice versa--but oftenest Juliet: for
though Laura greatly preferred to be the ardent lover at the foot, Pin
was but a poor climber, and, as she clung trembling to her branch,
needed so much prompting in her lines--even then to repeat them with
such feeble emphasis--that Laura invariably lost patience with her and
the love-scene ended in a squabble. Passing behind a wooden fence which
was a tangle of passion-flower, she opened the door of the fowl-house,
and out strutted the mother-hen followed by her pretty brood. Laura had
given each of the chicks a name, and she now took Napoleon and
Garibaldi up in her hand and laid her cheek against their downy
breasts, the younger children following her movements in respectful
silence. Between the bars of the rabbit hutch she thrust enough
greenstuff to last the two little occupants for days; and everywhere
she went she was accompanied by a legless magpie, which, in spite of
its infirmity, hopped cheerily and quickly on its stumps. Laura had
rescued it and reared it; it followed her like a dog; and she was only
less devoted to it than she had been to a native bear which died under
her hands.

"Now listen, children," she said as she rose from her knees before the
hutch. "If you don't look well after Maggy and the bunnies, I don't
know what I'll do. The chicks'll be all right. Sarah'll take care of
them, 'cause of the eggs. But Maggy and the bunnies don't have eggs,
and if they're not fed, or if Frank treads on Maggy again, then they'll
die. Now if you let them die, I don't know what I'll do to you! Yes, I
do: I'll send the devil to you at night when the room's dark, before
you go to sleep.--So there!"

"How can you if you're not here?" asked Leppie.

Pin, however, who believed in ghosts and apparitions with all her
fearful little heart, promised tremulously never, never to forget; but
Laura was not satisfied until each of them in turn had repeated, in a
low voice, with the appropriate gestures,