"I want a story very much," he said; "very much indeed."
"Perhaps Miss Baggerley would tell you one," suggested Granny. "I am sure it would be a more interesting one than any I could think of."
"I don't want anyone to tell me a story but you," answered the little tyrant wilfully; "only you, my Granny."
"Then I will, my darling," she replied, plainly gratified at this preference so strongly expressed. "But you must wait a moment," she went on, "I shall have to think."
She closed her eyes as she spoke, and there was silence, broken only by the sounds of the world without carried through the open windows—the lazy hum of the bees amongst the flowers, the gentle, monotonous cooing of the wood-pigeons in the trees, the far-off voices of children at play.
Presently the little beggar became impatient.
"Why don't you begin, Granny?" he asked, pulling her sleeve as he leant against her knee.
She started from a slight doze into which she had fallen.
"Let me see," she said with a start; "I had just thought of a very nice story, but I was trying to recollect the end. I think I remember it now."
"There was once a very beautiful Newfoundland dog," she began hurriedly. "Yes, he was a very beautiful dog indeed."