“Go downstairs, all of you,” he said, “and leave Tom and me to deal with her.” When they had left he sat with the child on his knee, and in grave tones began to talk to her. “You do not want to be naughty, dear child, but you will make us all very unhappy if you do such things as that. You are only a little girl, but I am sure you know what is right and wrong, and that getting out of a bedroom window is very wrong indeed. If you want to see a nest, I will try to find one for you in a hedge to-morrow; but you must not go and do what you like in this way without saying a word to anybody. What would your father say if his little girl were to fall from a window and be killed, and he should never see you any more? And what would your mother do if there were no longer any little Sissie? I shall be afraid to keep you in my house unless you promise me to be good. When you are put to bed you must lie still, and go to sleep, as other little girls do, because, you know, you say your prayers, and ask God to bless you; but how can you expect Him to do it if you are so naughty? He looks at you all the time, and takes notice of what you do; so you must always try to be good and obedient. And you will in future, won’t you, Sissie? Say you will; now promise me, there’s a dear little girl.” There was a beautiful expression of thoughtfulness on the sweet little face that was upturned to his, and the child passed her soft, cool hands to and fro over the bald part of his head while he waited for the promise. She did not speak for a moment or two, and then she said: “What a big forehead you have got! It goes all over behind.” Tom took the child from her father with a hysterical laugh, which soon changed to weeping. Then the little one began to cry, too, softly and pitifully. “I will be good,” she said, “dear Auntie Tom. Put me to bed, and I will be a little mousie, so still, and never, never do it again.” Tom’s nerves had been dreadfully shaken, and for some hours that night sleep was out of the question; so she and Margaret had a long talk together of that which was really uppermost in the minds of each. Margaret had been earnestly desiring to confide in her friend, but had not ventured to do so because she could not be certain of Tom’s feelings. On this night, however, Tom herself introduced the subject. “Margaret,” she said, “you have not told me, as you ought to have done, considering what good friends we have always been, that you are engaged to my Cousin John; but I know you are, because he has told me so, and I want you to accept my congratulations. Nobody in the world will be more pleased than I to see you two happy together.” “It is most good of you, Tom. Thank you very much. I have told no one; indeed, I am not sure that we are really engaged; but it is true that he cares for me, and I—he wishes us to be engaged, and perhaps there is no reason why we should not be. Do you know of any, Tom?”