A bed had been made on the sofa, and a nightdress of tiny dimensions lent by somebody. Joan was growing very sleepy once more, and made no objections to the removal of her frock, submitting so far to Dulcibel’s handling, while George sat down at a table to write a letter.
There, however, Joan made a stand. She stood, pouting, in her little red petticoats, with bare arms and shoulders. Evidently something was customary next, which she could not or would not explain, every suggestion being received with an indignant “No!” Finally Joan took the matter into her own hands, knelt down, shut her eyes, and said solemnly, with distinct utterance—
“‘Desuo, Dentle Shepherd, hear me,
Bress Thy nittle lamb to-night!’”
Recollection seemed to fail there, and no more words were forthcoming.
“Yes, darling—go on,” coaxed Dulcibel.
“Through the darkness be Thou near me—”
No; Joan refused to be prompted. She opened her eyes, frowned at Dulcibel, and scrambled to her feet.
“Is that all, Joan?” asked George.
“Dess,” Joan answered. She seemed to have an odd affection for the fourth letter of the alphabet.