The grandmother corrected her.
"Not till to-morrow, but for always."
"But does n't to-morrow mean for always?"
She loved the word "to-morrow," and whatever pleased her specially she carried forward into the future. She would stick into the ground flowers that had been plucked or branches that had been broken by the wind, and say:
"To-morrow this will be a garden."
"To-morrow, some time, I shall buy myself a horse, and ride on horseback like mother."
She was a clever child, but not very lively, and would often break off in the midst of a merry game to become thoughtful, or ask unexpectedly:
"Why do priests have hair like women?"
If she stung herself with nettles, she would shake her finger at them, saying:
"You wait! I shall pray God to do something vewy bady to you. God can do bad things to every one; He can even punish mama." Sometimes a soft, serious melancholy descended upon her. She would press close to me, gazing up at the sky with her blue, expectant eyes, and say: