“Oh! I never think of you when I’m all alone.”
“Thank you, Mischief. But I wonder whether you are quite frank. You must think of me sometimes. For example,—where were you when you thought of knotting my neckties all together, no longer ago than yesterday?”
“Oh!” (It is thus she begins many sentences. Her “Ohs” are delightfully equivocal.)
“Perhaps you’d rather not tell. Of course, I don’t mind about the ties.”
“It was nice of you—not to mind.”
Suddenly her blue eyes ceased to be. They are little pools of blue, like mountain lakes. I was aware that the dark lashes had stolen down upon her brown cheek. She opened her eyes again instantly.
“I wish I hadn’t found your ties. Finding them made a lot of trouble for me. I was looking for your funny little scissors to open the door of my doll-house that was stuck, and I saw the ties. Then I remembered that I needed a rope to tie Adolphus—that’s the woolly dog you bought for my birthday—to my bed at night; and neckties make very good ropes.”
“I’m glad to hear it, Mischief.”
“There’s a prayer they say in church about mischief—” she began sleepily.
“‘From all evil and mischief; from sin; from the crafts and assaults of the Devil?’” I quoted.