Jessamine is five and does as she likes, and does it perversely, arbitrarily, and gracefully, in the way of maids of five. In the pantry she had found her way to marmalade with an ease and certainty that amazed me; and she had, with malice aforethought, made me _particeps criminis_ by teaching me how to coax reluctant, tight-fitting olives from an impossible bottle with an oyster-fork. Jessamine is difficult. I thought of it now with a pang, as her brown curls lay soft against a red cushion and she crunched a biscuit, heavily stuccoed with marmalade, with her little popcorn teeth. I have wooed her with bonbons; I have bribed her with pennies; but indifference and disdain are still my portion. To-day was my opportunity. The rest of the household had gone to explore the village bazaars, and we were left alone. It was not that she loved me more, but the new nurse less; and, as sailing had usually been denied her, she derived from our few hours in my catboat the joy of a clandestine adventure. We had never been so much together before. I wondered how long the spell of our sail would last. Probably, I reflected, until the wanderers came back from town to afford a new diversion; or until her nurse came to carry her away to tea. For the moment, however, I felt secure. The fire snapped; the clock ticked insistently; my face burned from its recent contact with a sharp west wind, which had brought white caps to the surface of the lake and a pleasant splash to the beach at our front door. Jessamine folded her arms, rested her head upon them, and regarded me lazily. She was slim and lean of limb, and the lines she made on the couch were long. I tried to remember whether I had ever seen her still before. “You may read, if you like,” she said. “Thank you; but I’d rather have you tell me things,” I answered. I wished to be conciliatory. At any moment, I knew she might rise and vanish. My tricks of detention had proved futile a thousand times; I was always losing her. She was a master opportunist. She had, I calculated, a mood a minute, and the mood of inaction was not often one of them. “There are many, many things I’d like to have you tell me, Mischief,” I said. “What do you think of when you’re all alone; what do you think of me?” “Oh! I never think of you when I’m all alone.” “Thank you, Mischief. But I wonder whether you are quite frank. You must think of me sometimes. For example,--where were you when you thought of knotting my neckties all together, no longer ago than yesterday?” “Oh!” (It is thus she begins many sentences. Her “Ohs” are delightfully equivocal.) “Perhaps you’d rather not tell. Of course, I don’t mind about the ties.” “It was nice of you--not to mind.” Suddenly her blue eyes ceased to be. They are little pools of blue, like mountain lakes. I was aware that the dark lashes had stolen down upon her brown cheek. She opened her eyes again instantly.