Like the brush of a butterfly’s wing the child’s hand grazed the White Linen Nurse’s cheek.  “I’m a lonely little thing,” she confided wistfully.  “Oh, I’m an awfully lonely little thing!” With really shocking abruptness the old malicious smile came twittering back to her mouth.  “But I’ll get even with the Parpa yet!” she threatened joyously, reaching out with pliant fingers to count the buttons on the White Linen Nurse’s dress.  “Oh, I’ll get even with the Parpa yet!” In the midst of the passionate assertion her rigid little mouth relaxed in a most mild and innocent yawn.

“Oh, of course,” she yawned, “on wash days and ironing days and every other work day in the week he has to be away cutting up people ’cause that’s his lawful business.  But Sundays, when he doesn’t really need to at all, he goes off to some kind of a green, grassy club—­all day long—­and plays golf.”

Very palpably her eyelids began to droop.  “Where was I?” she asked sharply.  “Oh, yes, ‘the green, grassy club.’  Well, when I die,” she faltered, “I’m going to die specially on some Sunday when there’s a big golf game,—­so he’ll just naturally have to give it up and stay home and—­amuse me—­and help arrange the flowers.  The Parpa’s crazy about flowers.  So am I,” she added broodingly.  “I raised almost a geranium once.  But the Parpa threw it out.  It was a good geranium, too.  All it did was just to drip the tiniest-teeniest bit over a book and a writing and somebody’s brains in a dish.  He threw it at a cat.  It was a good cat, too.  All it did was to—­”

A little jerkily her drooping head bobbed forward and then back again.  Her heavy eyes were almost tight shut by this time, and after a moment’s silence her lips began moving dumbly like one at silent devotions.  “I’m making a little poem, now,” she confided at last.  “It’s about—­you and me.  It’s a sort of a little prayer.”  Very, very softly she began to repeat.

Now I sit me down to nap
All curled up in a Nursie’s lap,
If she should die before I wake—­

Abruptly she stopped and stared up suspiciously into the White Linen Nurse’s eyes.  “Ha!” she mocked, “you thought I was going to say ’If I should die before I wake,’—­didn’t you? Well, I’m not!”

“It would have been more generous,” acknowledged the White Linen Nurse.

Very stiffly the Little Girl pursed her lips.  “It’s plenty generous enough—­when it’s all done!” she said severely.  “And I’ll thank you,—­Miss Malgregor,—­not to interrupt me again!” With excessive deliberateness she went back to the first line of her poem and began all over again,

Now I sit me down to nap,
All curled up in a Nursie’s lap,
If she should die before I wake,
Give her—­give her ten cents—­for Jesus’ sake!

“Why that’s a—­a cunning little prayer,” yawned the White Linen Nurse.  Most certainly of course she would have smiled if the yawn hadn’t caught her first.  But now in the middle of the yawn it was a great deal easier to repeat the “very cunning” than to force her lips into any new expression.  “Very cunning—­very cunning,” she kept crooning conscientiously.