"I've scarcely seen you the last day or two, old woman," he said; "you were fast asleep when I came home. What have you been about?"
"About," Peggy repeated, looking puzzled.
"Well—what have you been doing with yourself?" he said again.
"I've been doing nothing with myself," Peggy replied, gravely. "I've done my lessons and my sewing, and I've used my eyes."
"Well, and isn't all that yourself?" asked papa, who was rather a tease. "You've done your sewing with your fingers and your lessons with your mind, and you've used your eyes for both—mind, fingers, eyes—those are all parts of yourself."
Peggy spread out her two hands on the table and looked at the ten pink fingers.
"Them's my fingers," she said, "but I don't know where that other thing is—that what thinks. I'd like to know where it is. Papa, can't you tell me?"
There came a puzzled look into her soft gray eyes—mamma knew that look; when it stayed long it was rather apt to turn into tears.
"Arthur," she said to Peggy's papa, "you're too fond of teasing. Peggy dear, nobody can see that part of you; there are many things we can't ever see, or hear, or touch, which are real things all the same."
Peggy's face lightened up again. She nodded her head softly, as if to say that she understood. Then she got down from her chair and went up to her father to kiss him and say good-bye.