me, in my shells, were the very puppets I had been in search
of!

"Oh, Emilia!" I exclaimed, "_what_ a good idea!"

But when she questioned me as to what I meant, I got shy again, and
refused to explain. I was afraid of her laughing at me, and hurried away
to put on my hat, more eager than ever to get back to these delightful
playfellows, as I really considered them.

And what games did I not have with them! I made them act far more
wonderful dramas than I could possibly describe to you, children. I went
through ever so many of the _Arabian Nights_ stories, with the shells
for caliphs and weseers, genii, and enchanted damsels. I acted all the
well-known old fairy tales, as well (or better) known in my childish
days as now: Cinderella and dear Beauty and Riquet with the tuft. There
was one brown shell with a little hump on its back which did splendidly
for Riquet. Then for a change to more sober life I dramatised _The
Fairchild Family_ and _Jemima Placid_, taking for my model a little book
of plays for children, whose name, if I mistake not, was _Leisure
Hours_.

But through all my fanciful transmogrifications I was constant in one
particular: the beautiful pale-rose-coloured shell which Emilia had
admired was ever my _prima donna_ and special favourite. It--I very
nearly had said "she"--was in turn the lovely wife of Hassan of Balsora,
Princess Graciosa, and Lucy Fairchild, whom, on mature consideration, I
preferred to her sister Emily, as, though not so pretty, she was never
guilty of such disgraceful conduct as eating "plum jam" on the sly and
then denying it! And when no special "actings" were on hand, and my
beautiful shell might have been supposed to be nothing but a shell, the
pleasures of my fertile imagination were by no means at an end. The
pretty thing then became a sort of beloved friend to me. I talked to it,
and imagined it talked to me; I confided to it all my hopes and fears
and disappointments, and believed, or pretended to myself to believe
rather, that the shell murmured to me in reply sweet whispers of
affection and sympathy; I carried it about with me everywhere, in a tiny
box lined with tissue-paper and cotton-wool; indeed it seems to me now
that many, perhaps most people, if they had heard what nurses call "my
goings-on," would have thought my wits decidedly wanting. But _of
course_ I told no one of my new fancy. I don't think at that time I
_could_ have done so. I lived in a happy dream-world