“Harriet, I must be put to bed,” said her little mistress. “You must ask where my bed is.” Harriet signified that she had already made that inquiry. “Ask if you sleep with me, Harriet.” “No, Missy,” said the nurse: “you are to share this young lady’s room,” designating me. Missy did not leave her seat, but I saw her eyes seek me. After some minutes’ silent scrutiny, she emerged from her corner. “I wish you, ma’am, good night,” said she to Mrs. Bretton; but she passed me mute. “Good-night, Polly,” I said. “No need to say good-night, since we sleep in the same chamber,” was the reply, with which she vanished from the drawing-room. We heard Harriet propose to carry her up-stairs. “No need,” was again her answer—“no need, no need:” and her small step toiled wearily up the staircase. On going to bed an hour afterwards, I found her still wide awake. She had arranged her pillows so as to support her little person in a sitting posture: her hands, placed one within the other, rested quietly on the sheet, with an old-fashioned calm most unchildlike. I abstained from speaking to her for some time, but just before extinguishing the light, I recommended her to lie down. “By and by,” was the answer. “But you will take cold, Missy.” She took some tiny article of raiment from the chair at her crib side, and with it covered her shoulders. I suffered her to do as she pleased. Listening awhile in the darkness, I was aware that she still wept,—wept under restraint, quietly and cautiously. On awaking with daylight, a trickling of water caught my ear. Behold! there she was risen and mounted on a stool near the washstand, with pains and difficulty inclining the ewer (which she could not lift) so as to pour its contents into the basin. It was curious to watch her as she washed and dressed, so small, busy, and noiseless. Evidently she was little accustomed to perform her own toilet; and the buttons, strings, hooks and eyes, offered difficulties which she encountered with a perseverance good to witness. She folded her night-dress, she smoothed the drapery of her couch quite neatly; withdrawing into a corner, where the sweep of the white curtain concealed her, she became still. I half rose, and advanced my head to see how she was occupied. On her knees, with her forehead bent on her hands, I perceived that she was praying. Her nurse tapped at the door. She started up. “I am dressed, Harriet,” said she; “I have dressed myself, but I do not feel neat. Make me neat!” “Why did you dress yourself, Missy?” “Hush! speak low, Harriet, for fear of waking _the girl_” (meaning me, who now lay with my eyes shut). “I dressed myself to learn, against the time you leave me.” “Do you want me to go?” “When you are cross, I have many a time wanted you to go, but not now. Tie my sash straight; make my hair smooth, please.” “Your sash is straight enough. What a particular little body you are!” “It must be tied again. Please to tie it.”