From under the sitting-room table came strange whispers, but Mrs. Hodgson was not at all surprised. Beneath the long overhanging cover she could see a chubby, curly-headed little girl seated on the floor talking in low earnest tones to her wax doll, braced against the table leg. Frances, the little girl under the table, would have described the scene very differently. What she saw was not an ordinary center table, but an Indian wigwam; not a speechless doll, but a squaw to whom she, as the chief, was telling tales of the war-trail and the happy hunting grounds. “Frances is pretending again,” said Mrs. Hodgson to herself as she went out of the room, a bit puzzled at this little daughter’s way of playing. The chubby little girl and her doll had many an adventure together. They took mad gallops on coal-black steeds that seemed to ordinary eyes nothing but the arms of the nursery sofa. As survivors from a sinking ship they drifted on a raft that Frances’ two sisters would have called the green arm chair. These experiences seemed very real to this little girl. Something within little Frances’ curly head helped her to transform the sitting-room cupboard into a temple in Central America and the stiff doll into Mary Queen of Scots. It was the gift of imagination. How surprised her family would have been at that time had they known that this gift was one day to make her a famous storywriter. In the smoky factory town of Manchester, England, Frances Eliza Hodgson was born, November 24, 1849. When she was about four years old, her sweet, gentle mother was left a widow. Like other English children of families in comfortable circumstances, the Hodgson girls had a governess at home, before they entered a near-by private school. The lessons which interested Frances the most were those that contained stories, such as certain parts of history. She could never satisfy her great appetite for stories, though she read continually. There were not so many good books for children then as nowadays. Frances’ relatives seemed to think that the birthday and Christmas gift books were quite enough for a little girl. Frances, however, did not agree with them. When she made a new acquaintance at school, she was sure to ask her, first of all, what books she had to lend. Sometimes when she went to visit a little friend, she forgot her manners entirely and buried herself in a new book, so eager was she to read. One gloomy rainy day, Frances wandered through the house looking for something to read. She glanced at the tall secretary and wished that its books looked more interesting. However, she decided that she might at least try one. Accordingly, she pulled out a fat volume. It had short lines, which, to Frances, meant conversation and a story. She opened another book and found more stories. Delightedly, she continued to examine the books.