So Miggy went for the little nightgown, and Peter, with infinite pains, got to his feet, and detached Bless-your-Heart and deposited her on the table, where she yawned and humped her back and lay down on an unfinished sleeve and went to sleep again. And when Miggy came down, she threw a light quilt and a pillow near the couch and sat behind the table and held out her arms. "Now!" she said to Peter, and to me she said, "I thought maybe you'd spread her up a bed there on the couch." "Let Peter," said I. "I've another letter I ought to have written. If I may, I'll write that here while you undress her." "Well," said Miggy, "there's some sheets of letter-paper under the cover of the big Bible. And the ink--I guess there's some in the bottle--is on top of the organ. And the pen is there behind the clock. And you'd ought to find a clean envelope in that pile of newspapers. I think I saw one there the other day. You spread up her bed then, Peter." I wrote my letter, and Peter went at the making up of the lounge, and Miggy sat behind the table to undress Little Child. And Little Child began waking up. It touched me infinitely that she who in matters of fairies and visionings is so wise and old should now, in her sleepyhood, be just a baby again. "I--_won't_--go--bed," she said. "Oh," said Miggy, "yes. Don't you feel all the little wingies on your face? They're little dream wings, and the dreams are getting in a hurry to be dreamed." "I do' know those dreams," said Little Child, "I do' _want_ those dreams. Where's Bless-your-Heart?" "Dreaming," said Miggy, "all alone. Goodness, I believe you've got a little fever." Peter stopped flopping the quilt aimlessly over the lounge and turned, and Miggy laid the back of her hand on Little Child's cheek and beneath her chin. The man watched her anxiously as, since the world began, millions of men have looked down at this mysterious pronouncement of the woman. "She has?" he said. "She'd ought not to have any milk, then, had she?" he added vaguely. It seemed to me that Miggy must have paused for a moment to like Peter for this wholly youthful, masculine eagerness to show that he knew about such things. "I'll fix her something to take," said Miggy, capably. "No, dear. The other arm. Straighten elbow." "I want my shoes an' stockin's on in bed," Little Child observed. She was sitting up, her head drooping, her curls fastened high with a hairpin of Miggy's. "An' I want my shirtie on. An' _all_ my clothes. I won't go bed if you don't." Miggy laughed. "Bless-your-Heart hasn't got her clothes on," she parried. "Ain't she got her furs on any more?" demanded Little Child, opening her eyes. "She has, too. She has not, too, took a bath. An' I won't have no bath," she went on. "I'm too old for 'em."