“I like tigers,” said the child; “tigers ’at pounce.”
“Look out, then!” cried a gay voice. “I’m a tiger! And I pounce! Gr-r-r!”
It was a trim, brisk little red-haired woman who had just come around the turn in the path. In fact, like a real tiger, she had been lurking there in ambush for some time, watching and waiting unsuspected.
“Gr-r-r!” she said again, moving forward with gleaming eyes and outstretched claws.
The little girl was delighted. With shrieks of joy she ran behind the bench, pursued by this wholly satisfactory tiger. Around and around they went, the brisk little woman as indefatigable as the child.
But the dejected Miss Mackellar had a conscience which hurt her even more than her shoes. She believed that life was very hard and painful, and that if it wasn’t, then you were certainly doing wrong. She felt that she had no right to sit there and be comfortable.
“It’s very kind of you, I’m sure,” she said to Mrs. Fremby—for the tiger was that lady; “but really I shouldn’t let you. I ought—”
“It’s a pleasure,” Mrs. Fremby assured her. “I am very much in harmony with children. Gr-r-r!” She disappeared around the bench again. “In fact,” she continued, when she reappeared, “I wrote a series of articles once upon ‘Scientific Play.’ Play is really work, you know.”
“Indeed it is!” Miss Mackellar agreed, with a sigh.
“I mean for the child. It is in play that a child develops those qualities of—aha! Gr-r-r!” And again she was gone. “Now then!” she said, addressing the child. “The tiger’s going to hide around the corner, by those bushes, and you’d just better not look for it!”