"I know it sticks up," Peter said contritely. "I do every way to make it stay down. But it won't."
"It makes you look funny," observed Miggy, frankly.
"Well," he told her, "if you wouldn't ever make me go 'way from you, you wouldn't ever need to see the back of my head."
"That would be just what would turn your head," she put it positively. "Peter, doesn't your arm ache, holding her so?"
He looked down at his arm to see, and, "I wouldn't care if it did," he replied, in some surprise. "No. It feels good. Oh, Miggy—do you do this every night?"
"I don't always curl her hair," said Miggy, "but I always put her to bed. If ever Aunt Effie undresses her, she tells her she may die before morning, so she'd better say her prayer, pretty. Goodness, she hasn't said her prayer yet, either."
"Isn't she too sleepy?" asked Peter.
"Yes," Miggy answered; "but she feels bad in the morning if she doesn't say it. You know she thinks she says her prayer to mother, and that mother waits to hear her...."
Miggy looked up fleetingly at her mother's picture on the wall—one of those pale enlargements of a photograph which tell you definitely that the subject is dead.