"I'll lie down on the couch,—so," said Marjorie, suiting the action to the word; "and I'll put the afghan over me,—so; but I can't go to sleep—because I can't."
"Well, shut your eyes, and try to go to sleep; and, at any rate, stop talking."
"Yes'm; I'll try." Marjorie squeezed her eyes tightly shut, and in a moment she began to talk in a droning voice. "I'm asleep now, Mother, thank you. I'm having a lovely nap. I'm just talking in my sleep, you know. Nobody can help that, can they?"
"No; but they can't expect to be answered. So, talk in your sleep if you choose, but keep your eyes shut."
"Oh, dear, that's the hardest part! Oh, Mother, I've such a good idea! Mayn't I begin to dress while I'm asleep? Just put on my slippers and stockings, you know. It would be such a help toward dressing to have that done. May I,—Mother? Mother, may I?"
"Marjorie, you are incorrigible! Get up, do, and go for your bath, now. And if you're ready too early, you'll have to sit still and not move until it's time to go."
"Oh, Mother, what a dear, sweet mother you are!"
With a bound, Marjorie was off of the couch and tumbling into her mother's arms.
Mrs. Maynard well understood the impatient young nature, and said no more about a nap.
But at last the time came for Marjorie to start, and very sweet and dainty she looked in her mauve and white costume. She had never worn that color before, as it isn't usually considered appropriate for little girls, but it proved becoming, and her dancing eyes and rosy cheeks brightened up an effect otherwise too demure for a twelve-year-old child.