"'Mamma! Papa and I think Miss Clifford is a beauty.'
"'Indeed!' said Mrs. Fay.
"'Yes, and when I pull out her comb and let all her beautiful hair down over her shoulders, papa says it looks like waves of gold.'
"Mrs. Fay walked up to her husband and said, in a hissing whisper—
"'So this accounts for the interest you take in the child's studies! In my opinion that Grace Clifford, with her sly demure face, is a great flirt—I thought she was too pretty when I engaged her. 'Golden waves!' and with a toss of the head, be-tokening a domestic thunder-storm, her ladyship left the nursery.
"The next day, as Grace sat busy with her work, with Meta beside her, the child suddenly looked up and said,
"'What is a flirt, Miss Clifford?'
"Grace was about to burst into a hearty laugh, but there was a look almost amounting to distress on Meta's face that checked her.
"'Why do you ask me that question, my pet?'
"'Oh! because mamma told papa yesterday that you was a flirt, and I thought—and (the child hesitated) it meant something naughty, because mamma was so angry.'