'Please, Mrs. Platt, can I see Teddy?'
'I think he is out in the clover field. Don't you be romping round with him now, for he's taken his Sunday book out, and is as quiet as can be.'
It was Nancy who was standing at the farmhouse door one lovely Sunday evening. Old Mrs. Platt was the only one at home, and she motioned with her hand where her little grandson would be found.
Nancy discovered him a few minutes later, lying full length in the sweet-scented clover, an open book before him. When he raised his face to hers, it wore his most angelic look.
'Hulloo! what have you come here for?' he asked.
'To talk to you,' and, without more ado, Nancy squatted down beside him.
'What are you doing?' she went on; 'and what's your Sunday book?'
'It's the Pilgrim's Progress. I love it; don't you? I haven't been reading it though for a long time. I've been having a beautiful make-up.'
'Tell me,' and Nancy's tone was eager.
Teddy looked away to the purple hills in the distance, and beyond and above them to the soft evening sky, with its delicate fleecy clouds flitting by, and taking every imaginable form and shape as they did so.
The dreamy, far-away look came into his eyes as he said slowly,—