began her father in a cheerful tenor.
"No, I wouldn't care for that," sighed Daphne.
"Why, it's from Stevenson himself!" argued her father. 96
"Never mind," snuggled Daphne. "Maybe I can think of one myself."
Peering down a moment later through the bright tickly blur of her hair her father noticed suddenly that her lips were moving.
"Oh, you're not praying, are you?" he squirmed. "Oh, I do hope you're not one of those people who makes his spiritual toilet in public! Dear me! Dear me! To brush your soul night and morning is no more, of course, than any neat person would do. But in public——"
"I wasn't praying," said Daphne. "I was making a little poem."
"You seem to be rather prone to make little poems," murmured her father.
"Would you like to hear this one?" offered Daphne.
"Oh, I don't mind," said her father.