“It is a little bone,” his mamma said, “and there is one in your other arm, and one in each of your legs. Do you know,” giving him a caressing little shake, “if I could see under all the fat on your little body I should find a tiny, weenty skeleton?” He looked up enraptured. His dimples had a power of expressing delight never equalled by any other baby’s dimples. His eyes and his very curls themselves seemed somehow to have something to do with it. “If you did,” he said, “if you did, _would you give it to me to play with_?” He was a very fortunate small person in the fact that nature had been extremely good to him in the matter of combining his mental sweetness and quaintness with the great charm of physical picturesqueness. All his little attitudes and movements were picturesque. When he stood before one to listen he fell unconsciously into some quaint attitude; when he talked he became ingenuously dramatic; when he sat down to converse he mentally made a droll or delightful and graceful little picture of himself. His childish body was as expressive as his glowing little face. Any memory of him is always accompanied by a distinct recollection of the expression of his face, and some queer or pretty position which seemed to be part of his mental attitude. When he wore frocks his habit of standing with his hands clasped behind his back in the region of a big sash, and his trick of sitting down with a hand upon each of the plump knees a brevity of skirt disclosed, were things to be remembered; when he was inserted into Jersey suits and velvet doublet and knickerbockers, his manly little fashion of standing hands upon hips, and sitting in delicious, all unconsciously æsthetic, poses were positively features of his character. What no dancing-master could have taught him, his graceful childish body fell into with entire naturalness, merely because he was a picturesque small person in both body and mind.