to keep Baby quiet while she makes the beds."
But when she got round to the other side of the table to her mother, she lingered a moment.
"Mamma," she whispered, "it's not there this morning – Peggy's fairy house. It's all hided up. Mamma – "
"Well, darling?"
"Are you sure it'll come back again?"
"Quite sure, dear. It's only hidden by the clouds, as I've told you before. You know you've often been afraid it was gone, and it's always come again."
"Yes, to be sure," said Peggy. "What a silly little girl I am, mamma dear."
And she laughed her own little gentle laugh. I can't tell how it was that Peggy's little laugh used sometimes to bring tears to her mother's eyes.
When she got up to the nursery again she found she was very much wanted. Nurse was in the night nursery which opened into the day one, and looked out to the back of the house just as the other looked to the front. And Baby was sitting on the hearth-rug, with Hal beside him, both seeming far from happy.
"Baby's defful c'oss, Peggy," said poor Hal.
And Baby, though he couldn't speak, pouted out his lips and looked very savage at Hal, which of course was very unreasonable and ungrateful of him, as Hal had been doing everything he could to amuse him, and had only objected to Baby pulling him across the floor by his curls.
"Oh Baby," said Peggy, "that isn't good. Poor Hal's hair – see how you've tugged it."
For Baby was still grasping some golden threads in his plump fists.
"Him sinks zem's feaders," said Hal, apologetically. He was so fond of Baby that he couldn't bear any one to say anything against him except himself.
"But Baby must learn hairs isn't feathers," said Peggy, solemnly. "And it isn't good to let him pull the feathers out of his parrot either, Hal," she continued, "for some day he might have a live parrot, and then it would be cooel, and the parrot would bite him – yes it would, Baby."
This was too much for Baby. He drew the corner of his mouth down, then he opened it wide, very wide, and was just going to roar when Peggy threw her arms round him and kissed him vigorously.
"He's sorry, Hal – dear Baby – he's so very sorry. Kiss him, Hal. Let's all kiss together," and the three soft faces all met in a bunch, which Baby found so amusing that instead of continuing his preparations for a good cry, he thought better of it, and went off into a laugh.
"That's right," said Peggy. "Now if you'll both be very good boys I'll tell you a story. Just wait a minute till I've tooked off my prayers pinafore."
She jumped up to do so. While she was unfastening it her eyes moved to the window; she gave a little cry and ran forward. The day was clearing up, the sun was beginning faintly to shine, and the clouds were breaking.
"Mamma was right," exclaimed Peggy, joyfully; "I can see it – I can see it! I can see my white house again, my dear little fairy house."
She would have stayed there gazing out contentedly half the morning if her little brothers had not called her back.
"Peggy," said Hal, plaintively, "do tum. Baby's pulling Hal's 'air adain."
"Peggy's coming, dear," said the motherly little voice.
And in another moment they were settled on the hearth-rug – Baby on Peggy's lap – on, and off it too, for it was much too small to accommodate the whole of him; Hal on the floor beside her, his curly head leaning on his sister's shoulder in blissful and trustful content.
CHAPTER II
THE WHITE SPOT ON THE HILL
"O reader! had you in your mind Such stores as silent thought can bring, O gentle reader! you would find A tale in everything. What more I have to say is short, And you must kindly take it: It is no tale; but, should you think, Perhaps a tale you'll make it."
"Telling stories," when the teller is only five and some months old, and the hearers one and a quarter and three, is rather a curious performance. But Peggy was well used to it, and when in good spirits quite able to battle with the difficulties of amusing Hal and Baby at the same time. And these difficulties were not small, for, compared with Baby, Hal was really "grown-up."
It is all very well for people who don't know much about tiny children to speak of them all together, up to – six or seven, let us say – as "babies," but we who think we do know something about them, can assure the rest of the world that this is an immense mistake. One year in nursery arithmetic counts for ten or even more in real "grown-up" life. There was a great difference between Peggy and Hal for instance, but a still greater between Hal and Baby, and had there been a new baby below him again, of course it would have been the greatest of all. Peggy could not have explained this in words, but she knew it thoroughly all the same, and she had learnt to take it into account in her treatment of the two, especially in her stories telling. In reality the story itself was all for Hal, but there was a sort of running accompaniment for Baby which he enjoyed very much, and which, to tell the truth, I rather think Hal found amusing too, though he pretended it was for Baby's sake.
This morning her glance out of the window had made Peggy feel so happy that the story promised to be a great success. She sat still for a minute or two, her arms clasped round Baby's waist, gently rocking herself and him to and fro, while her gray eyes stared before her, as if reading stories in the carpet or on the wall.
"Peggy," said Hal at last, giving her a hug – he had been waiting what he thought a very long time – "Peggy, 'do on – no, I mean begin, p'ease."
"Yes, Hal, d'reckly," said Peggy. "It's coming, Hal, yes, now I think it's comed. Should we do piggies first, to please Baby before we begin?"
"Piggies is so silly," said Hal, disdainfully.
"Well, we'll kiss him instead – another kiss all together, he does so like that;" and when the kissing was over – "now, Baby dear, listen, and p'raps you'll understand some, and if you're good we'll have piggies soon."
Baby gave a kind of grunt; perhaps he was thinking of the pigs, but most likely it was just his way of saying he would be very good.
"There was onst," Peggy began, "a little girl who lived in a big house all by herself."
"Hadn't she no mamma, or nurse, or – or – brudders?" Hal interrupted.
"No, not none," Peggy went on. "She lived quite alone, and she didn't like it. The house was as big as a – as a church, and she hadn't no bed, and no chairs or tables, and there was very, very high stairs."
"Is there stairs in churches?" asked Hal.
Peggy looked rather puzzled.
"Yes, I think there is," she said. "There's people high up in churches, so there must be stairs. But I didn't say it were a church, Hal; I only said as big as a church. And the stairs was for Baby – you'll hear – p'raps there wasn't reelly stairs. Now, Baby; one day a little
