“Yes, and he never knew it had had the least effect, because no one had ever said a word to him.” “Not even his mother?” Sunbeam laughed. “Oh, no. Why should she? She pretended she knew nothing about it till he had gone. Well, when they all saw him crying they thought he was putting it on, as he was given to a great many antics, but the master, who was sitting at the top of the table, was cleverer than the boys, and when the meal was over he sent for him and he asked him why he cried. Then he showed him the letter, and he read it through, and then he said to him, ‘You may make my bed as well as your own if you care to.’ “For he knew it is the best to do things for others. It is how we reach perfection, when we have learnt by simplicity to trust ourselves. And that was just what he had been longing for, yet had never liked to ask, for he had never had anything else to make but his own bed since coming from home.” “Well, what is the end of this long story?” I asked. “Well, the end of it is,” she answered very seriously, “he’s the best bed-maker in this particular kingdom of Heaven.” I sat down on the trunk of a tree to laugh and stare at her. But nothing ever seriously disturbed Sunbeam; instead, she sat on the grass and laughed too. “Do you think it funny?” she asked. “Why, yes,” I said. “Tell me why,” she enjoined, half laughing, half serious. “Mother says we’re none the worse for seeing the funny side of things, but sometimes I can’t find it, and she says we ought not to strain after anything.” “Well—” I began. “Go on.” “Well—” I began again. “Well what?” “Well, really, I think I must have fallen into the absurdity of laughing at nothing.” “You can’t,” flashed Sunbeam with some heat. “I can account for my amusement in no other way,” I returned. “If you won’t tell me,” she cried with more warmth than before, “I won’t kiss you again for a week, and that will be just as disagreeable for you as for me.” Then she jumped up and came to me coaxingly. “Come along, Genius,” she urged, “just do tell me what you were laughing at. You wouldn’t laugh at nothing. Nobody ever does.” “Well,” I began, heroically casting about for an explanation, “you see you said he was the best bed-maker as proudly as if you had said he was the best general, or the best cricketer, or the finest sportsman, or—or—the truth is, Sunbeam, you were thinking of one thing and I was thinking of another.” “Is that why you laughed?” “I am afraid there was no other reason.” “What’s a general?” she inquired presently. “A soldier,” I answered, walking on again. “Like father?” “In some respects.” “I remember,” she said at last. “I was trying to recollect the word and now I have done so. No, he isn’t a general. I don’t think he has ever led an army. When we go to the city father will take you to see him, for he is at home now.” “Has he a house there?”