"Ain't I the little pig that went to market?" I asked, anxiously, gazing up from her lap into her eyes, over which she wore glass things like covers. "And ain't I Baby Bunting?" I continued, with the memory of a famous hunt stealing over me.

"Once you were," grandmother answered, soberly. "Now you are Rhoda."

I liked to sit in grandmother's lap. She had such a soft silk lap, and in her pocket-hole there was a box which held peppermint drops. She never gave them to anybody but just me, when I was good, and if her arms were thin and fragile under the soft silk, she knew how to hold a little girl in a most comfortable fashion. Her white hair rippled down low at the sides, concealing her ears, but her ears were there for I had run my fingers up to see. She wore a lovely lace collar, and a breastpin with a picture on it, and when she walked the charms on her watch-chain clinked in a musical way. Grandmother was beautiful, and every one said that I looked just like grandmother. That was very nice, but puzzling, for my hair was golden, and my eyes were uncovered, and where grandmother had her wrinkles I had only a soft pink cheek.

I never sat very long on grandmother's lap. It was a function that meant catechism or extreme repentance, and then, also, I was too popular for one person to have me always. The family handed me around very much like refreshments. Now I would be with mother, and now with father, and now with Auntie May, who did not live at our house, but would run in on her way to school to pat my head. They were all so fond of me that it was quite gratifying.

"Where is Rhoda?" father would ask the very first thing when he came into the house at night, and I would sit up for him, holding on tightly to my chair for fear that they would put me to bed before he came.

Then we would have a little talk together, up in a corner by ourselves. He was my confidant, and was more on a level with me than other people. I had an idea that he would give me anything, quite irrespective of goodness or badness, for when I was naughty he never appeared to think any the worse of me, although the rest of the family might be bowed down with the sense of my moral shortcomings. He was my champion, and in the early twilight I had many stories to tell him, not always of the strictest veracity.

"And so I runned away, far, far away, and I only came home just now," I invented, in an airy manner.

"Did you see any one on the road?" he asked, with sudden interest.

He was aware of my love of a romance.

"There was a little old woman in a red cloak with a red pepper in her mouth," I answered, peeping up in his face with wide, truthful eyes.

"Mother Hubbard!" my father cried, clapping his hands like a boy. "Mother Hubbard! But where was her dog?"

"Her dog was behind, and he had a red pepper in his mouth," I added, hastily.

"I wonder what they were going to do with them," my father said, luring me on.

"Don't you know, father?" I cried, delighted.

"No, I can't think."

"Pies! She was going to make pies out of them! Pretty red pepper pies!"

"Sure enough!" my father said, much surprised. "I never thought of that. How I wish that I'd been along!"

The little old lady in the silk dress used to quake when I said these things. That was one of the reasons why she was teaching me my catechism at such an early age, and I could repeat some pretty hymns, too, which helped to comfort her. Always, no matter how extravagant the tale might be, she made her protest. She meant that, at least, there should be one strong hand to guide the child on the right road.

"That is not really so, Rhoda," she declared, in a severe voice. "You did not see an old woman with a red pepper in her mouth."

I looked at her with a pout.

"Well, I did see an old woman in a red cloak, grandma."

"No, you didn't see an old woman at all. Child, you have not been out of the house to-day!"

"I saw a dog with a red pepper in his mouth," I said, meekly.

"No, you did not even see a dog."

"Well, I saw my own red pepper!" I cried, breaking into sudden tears, for this was my last stronghold, and if the pepper was taken away all my charming fairy tale was gone.

"It's not a question of truth or untruth," my father said, tossing his head back as if he were displeased. "It was merely a story of adventure. Pray did you never meet any heroic beasts yourself in your own day?"

I opened one wet eye, and stole a cautious glance at grandmother.

"Never, Robert, never!"

I began to cry again harder than before.

Then my father took me in his arms, and carried me upstairs to my mother.

"Grandmother has been making her tell the truth," he said, ruefully. "She hasn't any sympathy with Rhoda's imagination."

So even in those early days I found that I had an imagination, just as I had a chair with long legs, and a blue plate, and a silver mug. It was a sleeping imagination as yet, for though I had a beautiful blue plate with a blue bridge over a blue and white stream, I never imagined until after years that those tiny figures on the bridge were lovers running away from a cruel parent. Then the bridge was the spot beyond which the gravy must not flow. When it swept over the boundary which I marked for it, I pounded the table with impotent rage, and would eat no more dinner.

"If she were a child of mine," grandmother said, sternly, "she should eat her dinner. It is simply preposterous that her temper should be allowed to go unchecked. What will she be when she grows up!"

"I don't think that Rhoda has a bad temper," my mother replied, plaintively. "It's only that she's the soul of order."

My mother always discovered an excuse that fitted my case, and that critical grandparent of mine found the ground swept from beneath her feet. I was the soul of order. She had seen me herself with my large basketful of toys wending wearily about the house. It was a large basket, a beautiful yellow one with a red handle, and when I began to play my things came out of it, and when I was through playing they went into the yellow basket again. I had a rag doll of a pleasing appearance, named Arabella, and a black woolly creature, which to the eye of affection was a dog, and some of the small bits of carved wood with which a wooden Noah intended to replenish his earth. I played the most delightful games with these toys, and my mother played with me like another small child.

It was with her that I lived most of my life. We were together, not only during the day, but also at night, for when I woke up hours after I had been put in my crib, she was always sitting in the lamplight, sewing or reading, or else quietly watching the fire on the hearth. There was a cheerful glitter from the brass andirons and fender, and on a shelf above a silver candle-stick with crystal pendants threw out rosy lights. I did not know any of these wonderful things by name, but I vaguely enjoyed their engaging sparkle, and would lie feeling very safe and warm, with my eyes on the central figure which came and went, now large and mother-like, now lost in the misty depths of slumber.

Strong as was my feeling of proprietorship in that crib, however, there came a dreadful night when I awoke to find myself lost. I was in a new bed. I was in grandmother's big bed, where there was a faint smell of lavender which I liked without knowing why. Grandmother herself had me in her arms and was soothing me.

"Hush-a-by, baby," she said, in quite a new tone, somewhat like a grandmother, but more like an angel. "Hush-a-by, baby, in the treetop."

I sat up and looked about for the shining fender. It was gone! The fire was gone, and my mother was gone!

"I want my mother," I said, sternly.

"Rhoda can't have mother now. Rhoda must stay with grandma," the dulcet voice went on. "Grandma's own little Rhoda!"

"But I want my mother," I cried, all the sternness breaking into sobs.

Grandmother was evidently alarmed. She rocked me softly, she gave me hurried sips of water, and, at last, she emptied the peppermint drops, not one by one as heretofore, but, lavishly, in dozens, into my hand. I felt a little more comfortable. The fender was a pretty thing to watch, but peppermint drops were peppermint drops. I went to sleep in my grandmother's arms quite calmly, while with tender touches she dried my eyes and smoothed my hair.

"Bless the child!" I heard her say, in the pause between dreams.

It was rather a shock, perhaps, to wake up in that big bed next morning and be dressed by grandmother. She was very awkward at it, as if she had forgotten how small garments were constructed, and how hard it was for arms to go into sleeves. I was preternaturally good, but even when I slipped my hand into hers to go downstairs I was meaning to desert her when mother came into sight.

We went down to breakfast, very clean and neat, with short, sober steps that suited both our gaits. Father came hurrying to meet us and was quite overjoyed to see me; but, although I searched in all the closets and behind the doors, there was no mother in any of the rooms. When no one was looking at me I started upstairs to hunt for her. Grandmother called me back in that old tone which must be obeyed, which had the ring of authority and catechism in it.

"Stay here, Rhoda," she said, decisively. "You are not to go out of this room."

Then with cautious steps she mounted up herself, passing into the forbidden regions, and father and I were all that were left of the circle about the table, which was usually so gay with talk and merriment. To my eyes father had a look as if he, too, were frightened.

"Never mind, father," I said, eagerly. "Rhoda won't run away."

He took me up with rather an apologetic laugh.

"Little daughter," he said, in a tender way, "did I ever tell you about the big bird?"

"No, father," I answered, quickly.

"Not about the time when it brought me Rhoda?"

I stared at him with delighted eyes. Evidently I was going to hear something of great importance, something which concerned me alone.

"Three years ago," my father began, in an easy fashion, "I thought I'd like a little daughter. So I sent a letter to a beautiful big bird which lives far away where the blue sky comes down to the ground. The bird has lots of little babies—girl babies and boy babies—on the shore of a lake where the sun shines day and night. She's a very good-natured bird, and sometimes when she hears of a father who's lonely because he hasn't any children, she'll put a little baby under her wing, and fly on over the beautiful country until she comes to its father's house. Now the bird knew that I was very lonely, because I had sent her a letter, so one day she picked up little Rhoda out of a lily leaf, and came flying along—flying along—"

"I remember! I remember!" I cried, clapping my hands. "She put me under her wing, and the feathers did tickle so!"

My father stopped to laugh; but in a moment he continued his narrative.

"She came flying along straight into the garden where I was walking about. She put you down—"

"And you said, 'Is this my little Rhoda?' and I said, 'Yes, father!'"

"Just so."

"Now tell it all over again, father," I demanded in delight.

My father laughed and hugged me closer. He still had that apologetic look on his face, and if I had been a little older and a little wiser, I would have known that my father was trying very hard to break something to me.

"She has a great many babies," he said at last, in an uneasy tone. "More than she knows what to do with. Yesterday I wrote her to send me another Rhoda."

I drew away from him, dumbfounded.

"Another Rhoda!" I exclaimed, with a gasp, frowning at him.

"Wouldn't you like a little sister to play with?" he inquired, tenderly. "To sleep with you in your crib? And sit by you at the table?"

"No, father."

"Oh, yes, yes, you would, Rhoda!"

"No, no, no!" I screamed, breaking into angry tears.

He tried to comfort me in a blundering, laughing manner, but in the midst of all my sorrow grandmother's voice called to him from above.

"Robert!"

When the room cleared before my eyes I saw that I was alone.

At that same moment I had decided on my course of action. Very quickly, very quietly, I collected my plate and mug, my woolly dog and pleasant faced doll, and the yellow basket with the red handle, and stowed them all away in a dark corner under the sofa, where they were hidden from sight. My blue hood which hung in the hall, and was something quite new and precious, I put on my head, where it would be safest. Then half terrified, half defiant, I took up my position at the window to watch for the arrival of that other self which would dispute my realm. Every second I dreaded to hear the flutter of wings as the bird passed over the house, and to see another Rhoda standing expectant in the garden, to see my father, perhaps, hurrying to meet her with outstretched arms. It was a terrible hour.

In my need, however, I found a new friend, Norah from out the kitchen. I had known her before, as a person owning unlimited cake, and apt to display a strong liking for myself, but then she had been only an outsider, while now she was almost nearer to me than my mother. I threw myself straight into her willing arms, and told my story.

Norah was evidently astonished, and almost incredulous. She did not believe that there could be another Rhoda. She had never heard of any bird, but when I persisted she shared my views, and entered into my position with great partisanship.

"But, sure, I'd not worrit my mind," Norah said, consolingly. "No burrd in her sinses would take a baby out in such weather as this."

To be sure it was raining. I had not thought of that before. A fierce storm was beating against the house, and pools of water stood under the trees. The raindrops on the window pane ran down in small rivulets, and splashed against the sill just as my tears had done before.

"She'll get her feathers all wet," I cried, triumphantly.

"And she'll not dry them at my kitchen fire!" Norah declared, with stupendous daring.

We were out in the kitchen now. It was a very pleasant homely place. A kettle sang on the stove, and a cat purred on the hearth, and the carpet had beautiful red stripes that seemed too pretty to walk on. Norah was very good to me. She had my high-chair ranged at the side of the hearth, and the cat, under compulsion, sat on my lap, and they all sang,—the kettle, the cat, and Norah, in their several fashions, as if they were happy. They acted very much as if they were entertaining royalty.

If it had not been for my sorrow I should have enjoyed myself, but the thought of that bird would pass across my mind. She had come once when she was sent for, bearing me from my lily leaf to my own home. The rain might fall, and the day might be very dark, but who was to know if that conscientious bird would not still fulfill her mission? Why, there were five children in the next house, and the bird must have brought them all! When the bell rang, as it rang many times in the course of the day, I would creep to the kitchen door to listen, and feel greatly relieved when I found that it was only men and women who wanted to come in.

"It was no burrd," Norah would say, reporting on each occasion.

"Did you lock the door?" I asked, anxiously.

"I did that. There's no burrd shall make her way into this house to-day," she answered, with a great show of determination.

Even as she spoke there came a faint strange sound from upstairs, a wailing cry, as though something very weak was angry and frightened, and wanted matters arranged to suit its own will and convenience. For one moment I thought Norah heard the sound, too. She seemed to smile; but on the instant she broke into a queer, elfish song, and began to dance before the fire in an irresistible way that brought me capering beside her in a burst of glee. The bird had passed out of my mind, and I was Rhoda again, the little queen of the household, to whom all deferred, even grandmother in her tenderer moments.

It was very late that afternoon when I heard my father calling to me in an eager, excited manner. He came out into the kitchen where I and the cat were both in Norah's lap, indistinguishable in the growing darkness.

"Where is Rhoda?" he cried. "Where is my little daughter? I've got something to show her."

I went to him quickly. It was nice to have him back again, and to be kissed in the old fond way. He threw me upon his shoulder and started off; but even as we stepped into the hall he called back to Norah, still with that boyish eagerness in his voice.

"You can come, too, Norah," he said, generously. "I want you to see what we've got upstairs."

Norah joined us without comment, and followed behind through the hall and upstairs into mother's room. There it was very dark, for the curtains were drawn, and the only light came from the fire on the hearth, in front of which grandmother was sitting. She sat in a new majestic style, and on her lap there was something bundled up which she patted from time to time, and she trotted her feet in a funny seasaw fashion. When she saw us come in she smiled, and then very slowly she folded down a covering, and showed us a pillow, and on the pillow there were two little babies' heads.

"Twins!" Norah cried, and threw up her arms in the air. "Now the saints be good to us," she said, piously.

"S-s-sh—Not so loud, Norah," grandmother whispered, in rebuke, and trotted her feet a little harder.

"Let Rhoda see," father exclaimed. "Let Rhoda come quite close."

I went up closer by grandmother's knee and looked at them. It was a new experience, and for a moment I felt sorry for myself. Those about me must have shared the feeling, for their eyes grew kinder, and father patted my back, and Norah muttered under her breath.

"Sure it's a come down in the world," I heard her say, pityingly.

Then, suddenly, those two little creatures half opened their eyes, and gazed at me. They smiled at me! They knew that I was their big sister! Oh, the wonder of the two little heads on the pillow, the mystery of the eyes that looked at me so placidly, with that smile of kinship in their depths! I forgot the bird, I forgot my jealousy. I was ready to give them anything, anything, even the woolly dog and the yellow basket with the red handle, for the simple honor of their acquaintanceship. They were so young, and they were so weak! They could not walk, and they could not talk. They had everything to learn. I felt very old beside them, although I did not know that in that first moment when grandmother turned the covering down I had become the eldest child.

"Oh, grandma," I cried, radiantly, "you may have one, but the other one shall belong all to me!"

There was a movement in the bed, and some one called to me. I ran into the darkness and found my mother. There on the pillow beside her pretty dark hair she made a place for me, where we could see each other's eyes. Her arm was about me in a protecting way, as if she knew how hard the world had become for me.

"Rhoda," she said, with that smile which always seemed so wise, "mother's heart is a big, big place! There is room in it both for dear little Rhoda and the dear little babies."

I felt that I was content.