Little Child to-day came, bringing me a few first sweet peas and Bless-your-Heart, Bless-your-Heart being her kitten, and as nearly pink as a cat can be and be still a cat. "To lay in the New Lady's room," she remarked, bestowing these things impartially upon me. Later, my neighbour came across the lawns with a plate of currant tarts and a quarter of a jelly cake. "Here," she said, "I don't know whether you like tarts or not. They're more for children, I always think. I always bake 'em, and the little round child fried cakes, too, and I put frosting faces on the cookies, and such things. It makes my husband and I seem more like a family," she explained, "and that's why I always set the dining-room table. As long as we ain't any little folks running around, I always tell him that him and I would be eating meat and potatoes on the kitchen drop-leaf like savages if I didn't pretend there was more of us, and bake up for 'em." Miggy alone does not take wholly kindly to the New Lady idea, though I assure her that our mornings are to remain undisturbed. "Of course," she observed, while in the New Lady's honour she gathered up strewn papers, "I know I'll like her because she's your friend. But I don't know what folks want to visit for. Don't you s'pose that's why the angels don't come back--because they know everything, and they know what a lot of extra work they'd make us?" In Miggy the tribal sense seems to have run itself out. Of the sanctity of the individual she discerns much; but of the wider sanctities she has no clear knowledge. Most relationships she seems to regard, like the love of Peter, as "drawbacks," save only her indefinite consciousness of that one who is "not quite her sister"--the little vague Margaret. And this, I think, will be the leaven. Perhaps it is the universal leaven, this consciousness.