The little woman was, wisely I think, left undisturbed in her innocent fancy. How many more times she ensconced herself in her window on the 31st of December I cannot say. The belief in the poor Old-year’s lonely wandering interested her for the time and did her no harm, then gently faded, to be revived perhaps as a story of “When mother was a little girl,” when mother came to have little girls of her own to beg for her childish reminiscences. This personification of abstract ideas is a peculiarity, a speciality of children, as it was no doubt of the children of the world’s history--our remote ancestors. And I have noticed that among abstract ideas that of _time_ has a particular fascination for imaginative little people. Many years ago I happened to be staying in a country house when a group of children arrived from town to spend their summer holiday with the uncle and aunt to whom it belonged. Entering the room where these little sisters were quartered, early in the morning after their journey, I was surprised to find the trio wide awake, each sitting up in her cot, in absolute silence as if listening for something. I too stood silent and still for a minute or two, till yielding to curiosity I turned to the nearest bed, which happened to be that of the youngest, a girl of five or six. “What is it, Francie?” I inquired. “Are you trying to hear the church bells”--for it was Sunday morning--“or what?” With perfect seriousness she turned to me as she replied-- “No, auntie dear. We are listening to _time passing_. We can always hear it when we first come to the country. In London there is too much noise. Meg”--her mature sister of ten--“taught us about it. So we always try to wake early the first morning on purpose to hear it.” Another friend of mine, now an elderly, if not quite an old, woman, had a curious fancy when a very young child, in connection with which there is a pretty anecdote of the poet Wordsworth, which may make the story worth relating. This little girl believed that during the night before a birthday a miraculous amount of “growing” was done, and on the morning on which her elder brother attained the age of six, she, his junior by two years, flew into the nursery when he was being dressed, expecting to see a marvellous transformation. But--to her immense disappointment--there stood her dear Jack looking precisely as he had done when she bade him good-night the evening before. Maimie’s feelings were too much for her. “Oh, Jack,” she cried, bursting into tears, “why haven’t you growed big? I thought you’d be kite a big boy this morning.”