What child of us--of Us Who Were--will ever forget the joy of having an older one enter into our games? I used to sit in church and tell off the grown folk by this possibility in them--“She’d play with you--she wouldn’t--she would--he would--they wouldn’t”--an ancient declension of the human race, perfectly recognized by children, but never given its proper due.... I shall never forget the out-door romps with my Father, when he stooped, with his hands on his knees, and then ran _at_ me; or when he held me while I walked the picket fence; or set me in the Eating Apple tree; nor can I forget the delight of the play-house that he built for me, _with a shelf around_.... And always I shall remember, too, how my Mother would play “Lost.” We used to curl on the sofa, taking with us some small store of fruit and cookies, wrap up in blankets and shawls, put up an umbrella--possibly two of them--and there we were, lost in the deep woods. We had been crossing the forest--night had overtaken us--we had climbed in a thick-leaved tree--it was raining--the woods were infested by bears and wolves--we had a little food, possibly enough to stave off starvation till daylight. Then came by the beasts of the forest, wonderful, human beasts, who passed at the foot of our tree, and with whom we talked long and friendly--and differently for each one--and ended by sharing with them our food. We scraped acquaintance with birds in neighbouring nests, the stars were only across a street of sky, the Dark did its part by hiding us. Sometimes, yet, when I see a fat, idle sofa in, say, an hotel corridor, I cannot help thinking as I pass: “What a wonderful place to play Lost.” I daresay that some day I shall put up my umbrella and sit down and play it. Well--Grandmother Beers was one who knew how to play with us, and I was always half expecting her to propose a new game. But that day, as she sat in the swing, her eyes were not twinkling at the corners. “What does it mean?” she asked us. “What does ‘wicked’ mean?” “It’s what you aren’t to be,” I took the brunt of the reply, because I was the relative of the questioner. “Why not?” asked Grandmother. Why not? Oh, we all knew that. We responded instantly, and out came the results of the training of all the families. “Because your mother and father say you can’t,” said Betty Rodman. “Because it makes your mother feel bad,” said Calista. “Because God don’t want us to,” said I. “Delia says,” Betty added, “it’s because, if you are, when you grow up people won’t think anything of you.” Grandmother Beers held her sweet-peas to her face. “If,” she said after a moment, “you wanted to do something wicked more than you ever wanted to do anything in the world--as much as you’d want a drink to-morrow if you hadn’t had one to-day--and if nobody ever knew--would any of those reasons keep you from doing it?”