THE GRANDMOTHER'S SHOE.
humble. We are beings whose nature it is to crumple tucks, make finger-marks on doors, run instead of walking, to be troublesome and want looking after, to play with toys and break them. In fact, if one only considers this subject, children take more nursing, more looking after, than one supposes; one generation is almost entirely occupied in teaching, bringing up, and providing for the next. Children, in some way or other, make the talk, the care, and the work for their elders; and if such a thing as an elder is now and then found who does not like children, what an unlucky thing it is for both parties?
But to leave these speculations. The sun was shining in at the oriel window when Lucy and I entered the long white-washed room on that memorable Sunday evening. The red curtain was half drawn, and it cast a delightful glow over the wall; we could not see the window, but we knew it was open, because a slight waft of air from it now and then swayed the curtain up and down, and floated the fallen leaves of geraniums across the bare floor.
We sat down at a distance from the curtain, each on one of the low stools. Lucy smoothed out her clean frock over her knees, set her little feet together, folded her arms, and counted her verses; there were ten. She produced from her pocket a Tonquin bean, two slate pencils, and seven ivory buttons; these she laid out on the floor beside her, taking up one and returning it to her pocket for each verse that she knew; this, she said, made it much easier to learn them. Not to be behindhand with her, and having some faith in the plan, I gathered up ten geranium leaves for the
