And when you looked again into Lizbeth’s eyes, you saw yourself; and "Oh, Mother," you said afterwards, for you had thought deeply, "I think it’s the _good_ Harry that’s in Lizbeth’s eyes, ’cause when I look at him, he’s always smiling." That was as far as you thought about it then; but once, long afterwards, it came to you that little boys never find their pictures in a sister’s eyes unless they are good, and love her, and hold her cheeks between their hands. Lizbeth’s cheeks were softer than yours, and when she played horse, or the day was windy, so that the grass rippled and the trees sang, or when it was tub-day with soap and towels up-stairs, her cheeks were pink as the roses in Mother’s garden. That is how you came to tell Mother a great secret, one evening in summer, as you sat with her and Lizbeth on the front steps watching the sun go down. "I guess it’s tub-day in the sky, Mother." "Tub-day?" "Why, yes. All the little clouds have been having their bath, I think, ’cause they’re all pink and shiny, like Lizbeth." But once Lizbeth’s cheeks were white, and she stayed in bed every day, and you played by yourself. Twice a day they took you as far as the bedroom door to see her. [Illustration: "THEY TOOK YOU AS FAR AS THE BEDROOM DOOR TO SEE HER"] "H’lo," you said, as you peeked. "H’lo," she whispered back, very softly, for she was almost asleep, and she did not even smile at you, and before you could tell her what the Pussy-cat did they took you away—but not till you had seen the two glasses on the table with the silver spoon on top. There was no noise in the days then. Even the trees stopped singing, and the wind walked on tiptoe and whispered into people’s ears, like you. "Is it to-day Lizbeth comes down-stairs?" you asked every morning. "Do you think Lizbeth will play with me to-morrow?" you asked every night. Night came a long time after morning in the days when Lizbeth could not play. "Oh, dear, I don’t think I feel very well," you told Mother. Tears spilled out of your eyes and rolled down your cheeks. Mother felt your brow and looked at your tongue. "_I_ know what’s the matter with my little boy," she said, and kissed you; but she did not put you to bed. One day, when no one was near, you peeked and saw Lizbeth. She was alone and very little and very white. "H’lo," you said. "H’lo," she whispered back, and smiled at you, and when she smiled you could not wait any longer. You went in very softly and kissed her where she lay and gave her a little hug. She patted your cheek. "I’d like my dollies," she whispered. You brought them to her, all four—the two china ones and the rag brunette and the waxen blonde. "Dollies are sick," she said. "They ’most died, I guess. Play you’re sick, too."