Out of the dim delicious dusk of the room come slowly the familiar treasures: the high polished desk, the great piano, the marvelous service of Delft that fills a monstrous sideboard in the distance, the chairs, all silk and satin and shining wood, the great pictures in gilt frames. In the largest chair sits Miss Salome. Will the Child ever tire of looking at her pale lined face, her silver high-dressed hair, her beautiful hands sparkling with rings, her haughty mouth, her tired, troubled eyes? She must have been almost as lovely as the Princess Angelica, once. But she smiles so seldom. She puts out her hand. “And what has happened since last Saturday?” she says. The Child laughs for pure joy. To talk, to describe, to venture at analysis, to ask the why and wherefore, to illustrate by gesture as vivid as her speech—these things are her happiness. To be suffered this joy in snatches is much, to have it demanded, and for one whole afternoon! Here is no one to reprove, no one to blame the idle hands, no one to question the propriety of mimicry, or to insist on her sitting in her little chair. Miss Salome watches her flitting about the dusky parlor, her reddish gold hair gleaming now against the Delft blue, now against the polished mahogany desk. She tells of the chickens that lost their mother. She wanders about clucking for her brood and cooing over the returned prodigals. She walks across the room as William does—her slouching gait, open mouth, drawling voice, irresistibly perfect. She describes the shooting star that seemed to her like a lost spirit, gone to sorrow and the earth. “It made me think of ‘Lucifer, son of the morning, how art thou fallen!’” she says solemnly. “I wonder how that star felt, Miss Salome?” There is a long pause. The lady sighs. Then, “You may read, if you like,” she says at last. The Child’s face flushes for joy. She runs to the book-cases and brings out a small brown book. She fingers lovingly the tree-calf that covers the precious pages, and opens them before she finds her chair. She curls up on a great satin ottoman and smooths the leaves. Where is the farm? Where the peas? Where William? They are less than shadows, more unreal than dreams. Her voice trembles as she begins: “’And now, your Highness permitting, I shall relate to your Majesty one of the most surprising adventures ever known to your Majesty—’” Ah, it is good to have been a child and perfectly happy.