little betty harris sat in the big window, bending over her gods and goddesses and temples and ruins. it was months since, under the inspiration of the mysterious, fruit-dealing greek, she had begun her study of greek art; and the photographs gathered from every source—were piled high in the window—prints and tiny replicas and casts, and pictures of every kind and size—they overflowed into the great room beyond. she was busy now, pasting the photographs into a big book. to-morrow the family started for the country, and only as many gods could go as could be pasted in the book. miss stone had decreed it and what miss stone said must be done.... betty harris looked anxiously at poseidon, and laid him down, in favour of zeus. she took him up in her fingers again, with a little flourish of the paste-tube, and made him fast. poseidon must go, too. the paste-tub wavered uncertainly over the maze of gods and found another and stuck it in place, and lifted itself in admiring delight.
there was a little rustle, and the child looked up. miss stone stood in the doorway, smiling at her.
“i’m making my book for the gods,” said the child, her flushed face lighting. “it’s a kind of home for them.” she slipped down from her chair and came across, holding the book outstretched before her. “you see i’ve put poseidon in. he never had a home—except just the sea, of course—a kind of wet home.” she gave the god a little pat, regarding him fondly.
miss stone bent above the book, with the smile of understanding that always lay between them. when betty harris thought about god, he seemed always, somehow, like miss stone’s smile—but bigger—because he filled the whole earth. she lifted her hand and stroked the cheek bending above her book. “i’m making a place for them all,” she said. “it’s a kind of story—” she drew a sigh of quick delight.
miss stone closed the book decisively, touching the flushed face with her fingers. “put it away, child—and the pictures. we’re going to drive.”
“yes—nono.” it was her own pet name for miss stone, and she gave a little quick nod, closing the book with happy eyes. but she waited a moment, lugging the book to her and looking at the scattered gods in the great window, before she walked demurely across and began gathering them up—a little puzzled frown between her eyes. “i suppose i couldn’t leave them scattered around?” she suggested politely.
miss stone smiled a little head-shake, and the child bent again to her work. “i don’t like to pick up,” she said softly. “it’s more interesting not to pick up—ever.” she lifted her face from a print of apollo and looked at miss stone intently. “there might be gods that could pick up—pick themselves up, perhaps—?” it was a polite suggestion—but there was a look in the dark face—the look of the meat-packer’s daughter—something that darted ahead and compelled gods to pick themselves up. she bent again, the little sigh checking itself on her lip. miss stone did not like to have little girls object—and it was not polite, and besides you had to take care of things—your own things. the servants took care of the house for you, and brought you things to eat, and made beds for you, and fed the horses and ironed clothes... but your own things—the gods and temples and scrapbooks and paste that you left lying about—you had to put away yourself! her fingers found the paste-tube and screwed it firmly in place—with a little twist of the small mouth—and hovered above the prints with quick touch. the servants did things—other things. constance mended your clothes and dressed you, and marie served you at table, and sometimes she brought a nice little lunch if you were hungry—and you and miss stone had it together on the school table—but no one ever—ever—ever—picked up your playthings for you. she thrust the last god into his box and closed the lid firmly. then she looked up. she was alone in the big room... in the next room she could hear miss stone moving softly, getting ready for the drive. she slipped from her seat and stood in the window, looking out—far ahead the lake stretched—dancing with green waves and little white edges—and down below, the horses curved their great necks that glistened in the sun—and the harness caught gleams of light. the child’s eyes dwelt on them happily. they were her very own, pollux and castor—and she was going driving—driving in the sun. she hummed a little tune, standing looking down at them.
behind her stretched the great room—high-ceiled and wide, and furnished for a princess—a child princess. its canopied bed and royal draperies had come across the seas from a royal house—the children of kings had slept in it before betty harris. the high walls were covered with priceless decoration—yet like a child in every line. it was betty’s own place in the great house—and the little room adjoining, where miss stone slept, was a part of it, clear and fine in its lines and in the bare quiet of the walls. betty liked to slip away into miss stone’s room—and stand very still, looking about her, hardly breathing. it was like a church—only clearer and sweeter and freer—perhaps it was the woods—with the wind whispering up there. she always held her breath to listen in miss stone’s room; and when she came back, to her own, child’s room—with its canopied bed and royal draperies and colour and charm, she held the stillness and whiteness of miss stone’s room in her heart—it was like a bird nestling there. betty had never held a bird, but she often lifted her hands to them as they flew—and once, in a dream, one had fluttered into the lifted hands and she had held it close and felt the wind blow softly. it was like miss stone’s room. but miss stone was not like that. you could hug nono and tell her secrets and what you wanted for luncheon. sometimes she would let you have it—if you were good—very good—and nono knew everything. she knew so much that betty harris, looking from her window, sighed softly. no one could know as much as nono knew—not ever.
“all ready, betty.” it was miss stone in the doorway again. and with a last look down out of the window at the horses and the shimmering lake, the child came across the room, skipping a little. “i should like to wear my hat with the cherries, please,” she said. “i like to feel them bob in the sun when it shines—they bob so nicely—” she paused with a quick look—“they do bob, don’t they, nono?”
“i don’t think i ever noticed,” said miss stone. she was still smiling as she touched the tumbled hair, putting it in place.
“but they must bob,” said betty. “i think i should have noticed your cherries bobbing, miss stone.” she was looking intently at the quiet cheek close beside her own, with its little flush of pink, and the greyness of the hair that lay beside it. “i notice all your things, nono,” she said softly.
miss stone smiled again and drew her to her. “i will look to-day, betty, when we drive—”
the child nodded—“yes, they will bob then. i can see them—even with my eyes not shut, i can see them bob—please, constance—” she turned to the stiff maid who had come in—“i want my grey coat and red-cherry hat. we’re going to drive—in the sun.”
the maid brought the garments and put them on with careful touch, tying the strings under the lifted chin.
the child nodded to her gaily. “good-bye, constance—we’re going for a drive—a long drive—we shall go and go and go—come, miss stone.” she took the quiet hand, and danced a little, and held it close to her—down the long staircase and through the wide hall—and out to the sunshine and the street.
james, from his box, looked up, and the reins tightened in the big hands. the horses pranced and clicked their hoofs and stood still; and james, leaning a respectful ear, touched his hat-brim, and they were off, the harnesses glinting and the little red cherries bobbing in the sun.
