"Tired!" mamma repeated, in some surprise. It wasn't often that Peggy talked of being tired. "What is that with? You've not been worrying yourself about the children who live over Mrs. Whelan's, I hope? You mustn't do that, you know, dear; it would do you harm and them no good."
For mamma knew that Peggy sometimes did "worry" about things—"Once she takes a thing in her head she'll work herself up so, for all she seems so quiet," nurse would say.
"No, mamma dear," Peggy replied; "I'm not tired because of that. I like thinking about the children at the back. I wish——"
"What?" said mamma.
"I wish I'd sisters like them. I'm rather lonely, mamma. I do think God might have gaved one sister to Peggy, and not such a great lot to the children at the back."
"But you have your brothers, my dear little girl. You might have been an only child."
"The big ones is always neely at school, and Hal's too little to understand. It's Hal that's tired me, mamma dear. He was so d'edfully cross afore nurse put him to bed."
"Cross, was he?" said mamma. "I'm afraid he must be getting those last teeth. He may be cross for some time; if so, it would not do to leave him." She seemed to be speaking to herself, but when she caught sight of Peggy's puzzled face she stopped. "Tell me about Hal, dear," she went on. "What was it that tired you so?"
"I was trying to amuse him and tell him stories about my white cottage up on the hill, and he was so cross. He couldn't understand, and he said they was 'nonsense' stories."
"He is too little, perhaps, to care for fancies," said her mother, consolingly. "You must wait till he is a little older, Peggy dear."