As to Ally, she felt all the dignity of the enterprise—her whole little soul was absorbed in it. Seated on Emma's knee, with the needle between her little fat fingers, and holding the board very tight, as if she was afraid it would run away from her, she very gravely and carefully stuck the needle in every place but the right—pricked her pretty fingers—ate sugar plums—stopping now to pat Rover, and now to stroke pussy—letting fall her thimble, and bustling down to pick it up—occasionally taking an episodical race round the room with Rover, during which time Sister Emma added a stitch or two to the work.
I would not wish to have been required, on oath, to give in my undisguised opinion as to the number of stitches the little one really put into her present, but she had a most genuine and firm conviction that she worked every stitch of it herself; and when, on returning from a scamper with pussy, she found one or two letters finished, she never doubted that the whole was of her own execution, and, of course, thought that working book marks was one of the most delightful occupations in the world. It was all that her little heart could do to keep from papa and mamma the wonderful secret. Every evening she would bustle about her father with an air of such great mystery, and seek to pique his curiosity by most skilful hints, such as,—
"I know somefing! but I s'ant tell you."
"Not tell me! O Ally! Why not?"
"O, it's about—a New 'Ear's pes——"
"Ally, Ally," resounds from several voices, "don't you tell."
"No, I s'ant—but you are going to have a New 'Ear's pesant, and so is mamma, and you can't dess what it is."
"Can't I?"
"No, and I s'ant tell you."
"Now, Ally," said papa, pretending to look aggrieved.