On the rug before the open fire sat Pussie, her head against her aunt's knee, her Skye in her arms—a picture of content. After a silence of at least two minutes she drew a long breath—so long that Aunt Kitty laughed, and asked her what the matter was.
With a good deal of hesitation the little girl answered, in a very sad voice, "Because it is almost time to go to bed."
"Pussie, why don't you like to go to bed?"
"Because—because— I don't want to say."
"Then I will tell you why. Shall I, dear?"
"Oh, auntie, you don't know. You can not even guess why."
Aunt Kitty stooped over and whispered something, which had the effect of bringing Pussie on her feet, as she exclaimed, "Why! how did you know?"
"I once was a little girl myself, dear."
"Oh yes, I know; but then you never felt as I feel about the dark."
"Don't be too sure of anything, little one. What should you say if I told you that I found out your fear of the dark just because I used to feel as you do now?"