luck; but being lugged up the shore, and fearing I had lost my
cannon-ball. And, you know, as quite a tiny chap, I had formed a habit
of praying about all my little wants and woes. I sometimes think, how
amused the angels must have been when my small petitions arrived.
There was a scarecrow, in a field, I prayed for, regularly, every
night, for weeks. I had been struck by the fact that it looked lonely.
Then I seriously upset the theology of the nursery, by passing through
a course of persistent and fervent prayer for Satan. It appeared as an
obvious logical conclusion to my infant mind: that if the person
who--according to nurse--spent all his time in going about making
everybody naughty, could himself become good, all naughtiness would
cease. Also, that anybody must be considered as 'past praying for,'
was an idea which nearly broke my small heart With rage and misery,
when it was first crudely forced upon me. I think the arch-fiend must
have turned away, silent and nonplussed, if he ever chanced to pass by,
while a very tiny boy was kneeling up in his crib, pleading with
tearful earnestness: 'Please God, bless poor old Satan; make him good
an' happy; an' take him back to heaven.' But it used to annoy nurse
considerably, when she came into the same prayer, with barely a comma
between."

"Oh, my Little Boy Blue!" cried the Aunt. "Why was I not your mother!"

"Thank goodness, you were not!" said the Boy, imperturbably. "I don't
want you for a mother, dear. I want you for my wife."

"So you had prayed about the stone?" remarked the Aunt, hurriedly.

"Yes. While seated there in disgrace, I said: 'Please God, let an
angel find my cannon-ball, which howwid old nurse fwowed away. An' let
the angel cawwy it safe to the courtyard of my castle.' And I was not
at all surprised to find it there; merely very glad. So you see,
Christobel, you were my guardian angel twenty years ago. No wonder I
feel I have known and loved you, all my life."

"Wait until you hear the rest of my story, Little Boy Blue. But I can
testify that you were not surprised. Your brown eyes were simply
shining with faith and expectation, as you trotted down the shore.
But--who said you might call me 'Christobel'?"

"No one," replied the Boy. "I thought of it myself. It seemed so
perfect to be able to say it on the first of my seven days. And, if
you consider, I have never called you 'Miss Charteris.' You always
seemed to me much too