on the play he had devised.  He took a tuft of the white down, and gently shook it free of his fingers close to the whirl of the wheel.  The wind of the swift motion took it, spun it round and round in widening circles, till it floated above like a slow white moth.  Little Rol’s eyes danced, and the row of his small teeth shone in a silent laugh of delight.  Another and another of the white tufts was sent whirling round like a winged thing in a spider’s web, and floating clear at last.  Presently the handful failed.

Rol sprawled forward to survey the room, and contemplate another journey under the table.  His shoulder, thrusting forward, checked the wheel for an instant; he shifted hastily.  The wheel flew on with a jerk, and the thread snapped.  “Naughty Rol!” said the girl.  The swiftest wheel stopped also, and the house-mistress, Rol’s aunt, leaned forward, and sighting the low curly head, gave a warning against mischief, and sent him off to old Trella’s corner.

Rol obeyed, and after a discreet period of obedience, sidled out again down the length of the room farthest from his aunt’s eye.  As he slipped in among the men, they looked up to see that their tools might be, as far as possible, out of reach of Rol’s hands, and close to their own.  Nevertheless, before long he managed to secure a fine chisel and take off its point on the leg of the table.  The carver’s strong objections to this disconcerted Rol, who for five minutes thereafter effaced himself under the table.

During this seclusion he contemplated the many pairs of legs that surrounded him, and almost shut out the light of the fire.  How very odd some of the legs were:  some were curved where they should be straight, some were straight where they should be curved, and, as Rol said to himself, “they all seemed screwed on differently.”  Some were tucked away modestly under the benches, others were thrust far out under the table, encroaching on Rol’s own particular domain.  He stretched out his own short legs and regarded them critically, and, after comparison, favourably.  Why were not all legs made like his, or like his?

These legs approved by Rol were a little apart from the rest.  He crawled opposite and again made comparison.  His face grew quite solemn as he thought of the innumerable days to come before his legs could be as long and strong.  He hoped they would be just like those, his models, as straight as to bone, as curved as to muscle.

A few moments later Sweyn of the long legs felt a small hand caressing his foot, and looking down, met the upturned eyes of his little cousin Rol.  Lying on his back, still softly patting and stroking the young man’s foot, the child was quiet and happy for a good while.  He watched the movement of the strong deft hands, and the shifting of the bright tools.  Now and then, minute chips of wood, puffed off by Sweyn, fell down upon his face.  At last he raised himself, very gently, lest a jog should