What do children know of life, she thinks, who play with tops and dogs and kittens? There are books in the world. And they own all lands and seas and peoples, who own those printed leaves. Even Miss Salome does not know as much as the books. Even Miss Salome cannot say such curious wonderful things. Why is Miss Salome so good to her? In heaven, will they see each other? “In my Father’s house are many mansions.” Suppose she should be put in Miss Salome’s? Will the “Arabian Nights” be there? When she lifts her eyes from the book they fall on an immense peacock-feather fan. It glows on the wall, and the eyes dilate and tremble and satisfy her hungry little soul with the color she loves. On a small table near her stands a sandal-wood cabinet. Its faint sweet smell mingles with the spices and gums of the tale, and should a Genius spring from the cover and bow to the ground before them, she would not be surprised. With a sigh of pleasure she releases the princess and outwits the evil spirit. “’And now if your Majesty would care to listen to the story of the Fisherman——’” “That is enough,” says Miss Salome. “Are you tired?” The Child’s eyes answer her. “Then sing to me.” “What shall I sing?” says the Child. “’Lord Lovell’”? “If you like,” answers Miss Salome. The Child rises and stands before the great chair. Her face is raised and serious. She knows only ballads, but to her they are opera and symphony in one. She clasps her hands and begins: _Lord Lovell he stood at his castle gate, A-combing his milk-white steed, When out came Lady Nancy Bell, To wish her lover good spee-ee-eed, To wish her lover good speed._ Her voice rings true as a bell. Miss Salome smiles at the eager little face. [Illustration] _“Now where are you going, Lord Lovell?” she said, “Now where are you going?” said she. “I’m going away, dear Nancy Bell, Strange countries for to see-ye-ye, Strange countries for to see!”_ She carries them through fateful verses and unconsciously softens and saddens her voice at the woful ending, where _They buried the lady in the nave of the church, They buried the lord in the choir, And out of her bosom there grew a red rose, And out of her lover’s a brier-ier-ier, And out of her lover’s a brier._ Miss Salome applauds vigorously. “One more,” she begs. The Child’s heart grows big with happiness. That she should love it so, and yet with it pleasure others! It is too much joy. She will make a special prayer to-night and thank God, as does her grandmother, for unexpected bounty. “I will sing, ‘Come with thy lute,’” she says. It is a quaint, old-fashioned tune, and her voice rises and falls, and reaches for the notes with an almost pathetic feeling for their beauty: [Illustration: Moderato.]