f's castle, and I want to see how
she escapes. I'd much rather stay and read than go racing round the
garden playing at 'I spy!'"

"But I thought you liked Effie and May and the Fergusson boys."

"I hate boys!" declared Sylvia dramatically. "At least, not Cousin
Cuthbert and Ronald Hampson, but boys like the Fergusson boys. They do
nothing but tear about and play tricks on one. They're perfectly
hateful! I didn't enjoy my last party there one scrap. They tease me
most dreadfully every time I meet them."

"What about?"

"They call me 'The Tragic Muse', because they got hold of one of my
pieces of poetry. They made the most dreadful fun of it. And it wasn't
tragic at all. It was about the Waltons' baby, and its blue eyes and
curls and dimples. I did put dimples, though they read it out pimples!
I don't believe they know what tragic means, or a muse either, and I
do, because I learnt them in Greek history last month. Mrs. Walton
liked the poetry though. She said I must copy it into her album and
sign my name to it, and she thought I might be a poetess when I grew
up, and she expected it was that which kept me so thin, and had you
tried giving me cod-liver oil, because she was sure it would do me
good. You're not going to, are you? I took some once at Aunt Louisa's,
and it was the most disgusting stuff."

"I don't think you need any more medicine just at present, so we will
spare you the cod-liver oil," said Mrs. Lindsay, smiling. "Perhaps Roy
and Donald would have forgotten about the poem by this afternoon."

"No, they wouldn't. They never forgot anything if it's possible to
tease. I'd far rather they didn't come. I don't want the Waltons
either, or the Carsons. It's so nice and quiet in here, and Miss
Holt's out, and it's such a wet day that there won't be any callers,
and I can have tea with you in the drawing-room, and Father said
perhaps he would be back from the office by half-past five, and he
promised the next time he was home early that he'd go through my
museum and help me to label all the shells, and that would be far
nicer than a party."

"I thought you enjoyed playing with other children, dear," said Mrs.
Lindsay rather gravely.

"I don't think I do," replied Sylvia. "It's so hard to make them play
properly. They never can imagine things. When I tell the Waltons
there's a witch in the cupboard, they look inside and say there isn't
anybody there. They can't understand that you can pretend things until