“A girl’s imagination,” as Aunt Agatha once said, “resembles an unbroken colt, that must be disciplined and trained, or it will run away with her.” I have a notion that my Pegasus soared pretty high and far that night. I imagined myself an old woman with wrinkles and grey hair, and cap border that seemed to touch my face, and I was sitting alone by a fire reviewing my past life. “It has not been so long, after all,” I thought; “with the day’s work came the day’s strength. The manna pot was never empty, and never overflowed. Who is it said, ‘Life is just a patchwork?’ I have read it somewhere. I like that idea. ‘How badly the children sew in their little bits—a square here and a star there. We work better as we go on.’ Yes, that queer comparison is true. The beauty and intricacy of the pattern seem to engross our interest as the years go on. When rest-time comes we fold up our work. Well done or badly done, there will be no time for unpicking false stitches then. Shall I be satisfied with my life’s work, I wonder? Will death be to me only the merciful nurse that call us to rest?” “Why, Miss Fenton, are you asleep? I have knocked and knocked until I was tired.” I started up in some confusion. Had I fallen asleep, I wonder? for there was Miss Cheriton standing near me, with an oddly-shaped Roman lamp in her hand, and there was a gleam of fun in her eyes, as though she were pleased to catch me napping. “You must have been tired,” she said, smiling. “The room looked quite eerie as I entered it, with streaks of moonlight everywhere. Dinner is just over, and I slipped away to see if you are comfortable. I am afraid you are rather dull.” But I would not allow that, for what business has a nurse to be subject to moods like idle people? but I could not deny that it was very pleasant to see Miss Cheriton. She was certainly very pretty—a good type of a fresh, healthy, happy English girl, and there is nothing in the world to equal that. The creamy Indian muslin gown suited her perfectly, and so did the knot of crimson roses and maidenhair, against the full white throat; and the small head, with its coil of dark shiny hair, was almost classical in its simplicity. A curious idea came to me as I looked at her. She reminded me of a picture I had seen of one of the ten virgins—ready or unready, I wonder which! The bright-speaking face, the festive garb, the quaint lamp, recalled to me the figure in the foreground, but in a moment the vague image faded away. “How I wonder what you do with yourself in the evening, when the children are asleep!” observed Gay, glancing at me curiously. Then, as I looked surprised at that, she continued, sitting down beside me in the window-seat, in the most friendly way imaginable: