At that she would have Bless-your-Heart in her arms, and there was some argument arising from her intention to take the kitten in one hand all the way through her nightgown sleeve. And by this time sleepyhood tears were near. "_Don't_ curl your toes under so," said Miggy, struggling with a shoe. "Peter, do go on. You'll never have it done." Whereat Peter flapped the quilt again; and-- "I will curl my toes up. That's what I want to do. I _want_ to curl 'em up!" said Little Child. And now the sleepyhood tears were very near. "Goodness," said Miggy, suddenly, "to-morrow is Sunday. I'll have to do her hair up for curls. Peter!" she cried, "stop waving that quilt, and tear me off a strip of that white lining there." "Yes, _I'll_ have curls," said Little Child, unexpectedly, "because that is so becunning to me." But she was very sleepy, and when Peter had been sent for the brush from the kitchen shelf, her head was on Miggy's shoulder, and Miggy looked at Peter helplessly. "Give her to me," said Peter, and took the child and laid the kitten at large upon the floor; and then, holding Little Child's head in the hollow of his arm, he sat down before Miggy, leaning toward her, and all the child's soft brown hair lay on his sleeve. I should have liked to watch them then. And I should have liked Calliope and Mis' Toplady and my neighbour to see them--those three who of all the village best understood mystery. I know that Peter did not take his eyes from Miggy's face as she brushed and wound the curls. How could he?--and Miggy, "sweet as boughs of May" in that white frock, her look all motherly intent upon her task. She was very deft, and she had that fine mother-manner of caring for the child with her whole hand instead of tipsifingers. I would see a woman infinitely delicate in the touching of flowers or tea-cups or needlework, but when she is near a child, I want her to have more than delicacy. I was amazed at Miggy's gentleness and her pretty air of accustomedness. And when Little Child stirred, Miggy went off into some improvised song about a little black dog that got struck with a wagon and went Ki--yi--ki--yi--_ad infinitum_, and Miggy seemed to me to have quite the technical mother-air of tender abstraction. "How dark her hair is growing," she said. "It's just the colour of yours," said Peter, "and the little curls on the edges. They're like yours, too." "My hair!" Miggy said deprecatingly. "You've got rather nice hair, Peter, if _only_ it wouldn't stick up that way at the back." "I know it sticks up," Peter said contritely. "I do every way to make it stay down. But it won't." "It makes you look funny," observed Miggy, frankly. "Well," he told her, "if you wouldn't ever make me go 'way from you, you wouldn't ever need to see the back of my head." "That would be just what would turn your head," she put it positively. "Peter, doesn't your arm ache, holding her so?"