'A boy carried it. A strong boy--not like you. Isn't that candied lemon-peel in the glass bottle?' 'Yes.' 'I should like some. I'm very fond of sweet things.' Quite as though the little girl were mistress of the establishment, my mother went behind the counter, and cut a slice of the lemon-peel. 'What a small piece!' exclaimed the girl, sitting on the box, and biting it. 'I could put it all in my mouth at once; but I like to linger over nice things.' And she did linger over it, while we looked on. When she had finished, she said: 'I suppose I am to sit here till he wakes.' 'No, my dear,' said my mother, who had been regarding her childlike ways with tenderness; 'you had better come inside. It will be more comfortable. But, indeed, indeed, you have bewildered me!' The girl laughed, soft and low, and my mother's heart went out to her. The next minute we were in the parlour again. My mother motioned that she would have to be very quiet, and pointed to a seat. Before our visitor sat down, she took off her bonnet and mantle, and laid them aside. The presence of this slight graceful creature was like a new revelation to me; the common room became idealised by a subtle charm. But how was it all to end? An hour ago she was not here; and I wondered how we could have been happy and contented without her. She was exceedingly pretty, and her face was full of expression. That, indeed, was one of her strongest charms. When she spoke, it was not only her tongue that spoke. Her eyes, her hands, the movements of her head, put life and soul into her words, and made them sparkle. Her hair was cut short, and just touched her shoulders; its colour was a light auburn. Her hands were small and white; I noticed them particularly as she took from the table the book I had been reading. Are you fond of reading?' she asked, in a low tone. 'Yes,' I answered. It really seemed to me as if I had known her for years. 'Are you?' 'I love it. I like to read in bed. Then I don't care for anything.' Soon she was skimming through 'Picciola;' but looking up she noticed that my mother's eyes were fixed admiringly upon her. She laid the book aside and approached my mother, so that her words might not be lost. 'It makes it strong to cut it, does it not?' was the first question. 'Makes what strong?' My mother did not know to what it was our visitor referred. I made a shrewd guess, mentally, and discovered that I was right. 'The hair. To cut it when one is young, as mine is cut, makes it strong?' 'Yes, my dear. It will be all the better for being cut.' 'Why do you call me your dear?' My mother replied gently, with a slight hesitancy: 'I won't, if you don't like me to.' 'Oh, but I like it! And it sounds nice from you. It will be all the better for being cut! That's what _I_ think. It was nearly down to my waist. Do you like it?' 'It is very pretty.'