“Mother, give me a pearl, I’ve got to the ninth stitch.” The voice awoke me to the life around. In some ways it was a child’s voice, yet filled with such sweet wisdom and clear cadence that never child on earth spoke like it. The wheel stopped. “Which is it, pink or white?” “Pink this time. Look.” In both voices there was a similarity, but one was fuller, richer, with a sweetness childhood never yet could give a voice, however pure. “When you have put it in, go once more and see if our guest has wakened.” “And may I take the flowers and fruit?” I think she must have answered by a nod, for the wheel went on once more till interrupted by the childish voice again. “The last time I went in he was quite fast asleep. I put a lily in his hand, but he never noticed it. Then I climbed upon the bed and kissed his brow, but it was cold, colder than anything about here. I took his hand and pressed it in both mine, but it was stiff and fell from mine as if I never held it. Then I sang one of my songs, one father taught me when I was very small, and soon I thought he looked as if he listened; but perhaps it was only thought, because when I stooped and whispered, ‘Did you hear?’ he answered not at all.” The other laughed—a laugh so full of mirth and pure delight that, forgetting, I laughed too, but being intent on their conversation they heard not. “Well, we cannot blame you, Sunbeam, you did your best, and failed. But this time when you go, if he is asleep you may shake him gently, it is time he was awake.” Soon after I heard soft footsteps stealing to the door, and my first notion was to close my eyes and feign sleep once more. But I recognised that deception was perhaps a thing unknown even in trifles where children were concerned, so I sat up, feeling no giddiness after the long rest. I remember the first glance she gave as she peeped round the door was one of curiosity to see if I were still asleep, but seeing me awake she stepped back, and then came forward hesitating, almost shyly. Here was a miniature vision of loveliness, with a face so fair and tender, and eyes so true and clear, that it did one good to look at her. And so I felt, for out of pure light spirits I laughed aloud. “Why do you laugh?” she asked, looking up with pardonable surprise to be thus greeted after so long a silence. “I laugh to think I had almost begun our friendship with a crime.” “What is that?” she returned. “I do not know. You have made me forget.” She looked at me with evident and curious interest for some little time, holding the flowers in one hand and in the other a dish of fruit, till at last she observed,— “Don’t they ever kiss each other where you come from?” At a hint so broad I had no further excuse for not extending such a simple salutation. So I stooped and kissed her, and lifted her up with her various gifts beside me on the bed. She took some of the fruit in her hand and held it to me. “Eat this,” she bade me. “It will make you strong.”