"I don't think there are any star-gleams amongst the cabbages in this garden," she replied. "Only slugs." "I don't care," I said; "the fact remains that Priscilla ought to be constantly wondering what the cabbages do say to each other when they have lonesome feels at night." "Priscilla," I began again, "in about three years you will be seven years old and quite a big girl. What will you play at then?" "Oh, I san't play at all," she said. "I sall go visiting and sopping." "Anything else?" "Oh, yes, I sall have a knife." "A pocket-knife?" "No, not a pocket-knife, a knife to cut meat wiv, of course." I had forgotten this goal of maidenly desires. "And won't you go long walks in the big woods with me and tell me the names of all the flowers and what they are thinking about?" "Yes," she replied rather doubtfully. "Are there beasts in the woods?" "Only rabbits, I think." "We must be very careful, then, 'cos they're _very_ wild creatures, aren't they?" "Oh, not _very_ wild." "Will you buy a gun at the gun-sop and soot them and we take them home and eat them?" Bless the child, I thought, there seems to be no getting her away from this eating business. "Priscilla," I began again, "in the woods there is a great big lake, with trees and rushes all round it, and there are water-lilies floating about and forget-me-nots at the edge." Now, I thought, we shall perhaps have something about the lullaby songs of the trees and the willow that does sing by the creek. "Are there fiss in the lake?" inquired Priscilla. "Yes," I said, "beautiful shining fish." "And sall we catch the fiss and put them on the fire?" "I suppose we might," I admitted. "And will they sizzle?" "Araminta," I said, "the child is hopeless. She has no soul. She will never be a great authoress. The Cup must remain in Oregon, and Priscilla will never tell the world how the wind did go walking in the field, talking to the earth voices, with a preface by Sir AUCKLAND GEDDES or Lord READING. She thinks about nothing but her food." "Perhaps you had better try again after she's said her prayers," suggested Araminta. "She may be feeling a little more soulful then." I attended the ceremony, which was performed with the utmost decorum and gravity. When it was ended Priscilla looked up. "I said them very somnly and in rarver a low voice, didn't I?" she announced, and then went off into gurgles of laughter. I determined to make one last despairing effort. "Priscilla," I asked, "which of your books do you like the best?" "_The Gobbly Goblin_," she said. "Araminta," I cried, "I give it up. She has no bent for literature. There can never have been any great authoress, young or old, who started with such a materialistic mind." "You forget Mrs. Beeton," she replied. * * * * * [Illustration: THE EXPERTS. ASQUITH. "GIVE HIM HIS HEAD!" GREY. "TELL HIM YOU'LL CUT THE STRING IN A COUPLE OF YEARS!" MORLEY. "WHAT YOU WANT IS A MORE POWERFUL SANITY!"]