“Budge, what did you do it for?”

“Why—­why—­I—­because—­why, you see—­because, why, Toddie froo his dolly in my mouth; some of her hair went in, any how, an’ I didn’t want his dolly in my mouth, so I sent it back to him, an’ the foot of the bed didn’t stick up enough, so it went from the door to your bed—­that’s what for.”

The explanation seemed to bear marks of genuineness, albiet the pain of my eye was not alleviated thereby, while the exertion expended in eliciting the information had so thoroughly awakened me that further sleep was out of the question.  Besides, the open door,—­had a burglar been in the room?  No; my watch and pocketbook were undisturbed.  “Budge, who opened that door?”

After some hesitation, as if wondering who really did it, Budge replied:—­

“Me.”

“How did you do it?”

“Why, you see we wanted a drink, an’ the door was fast, so we got out the window on the parazzo roof, an’ comed in your window.”  (Here a slight pause.) “An’ ‘twas fun.  An’ then we unlocked the door, an’ comed back.”

Then I should be compelled to lock my window-blinds—­or theirs, and this in the summer season, too!  Oh, if Helen could have but passed the house as that white-robed procession had filed along the piazza-roof!  I lay pondering over the vast amount of unused ingenuity that was locked up in millions of children, or employed only to work misery among unsuspecting adults, when I heard light footfalls at my bedside, and saw a small shape with a grave face approach and remark:—­

“I wants to come in your bed.”

“What for, Toddie?”

“To fwolic; papa always fwolics us Sunday mornin’s.  Tum, Budgie, Ocken Hawwy’s doin’ to fwolic us.”

Budge replied by shrieking with delight, tumbling out of bed, and hurrying to that side of my bed not already occupied by Toddie.  Then those two little savages sounded the onslaught and advanced precipitately upon me.  Sometimes, during the course of my life, I have had day-dreams which I have told to no one.  Among these has been one—­not now so distinct as it was before my four years of campaigning—­of one day meeting in deadly combat the painted Indian of the plains; of listening undismayed to his frightful war-whoop, and of exemplifying in my own person the inevitable result of the pale-face’s superior intelligence.  But upon this particular Sunday morning I relinquished this idea informally, but forever.  Before the advance of these diminutive warriors I quailed contemptibly, and their battle-cry sent more terror to my soul than that member ever experienced from the well-remembered rebel yell.  According to Toddie, I was going to “fwolic” Them; but from the first they took the whole business into their own little but effective hands.  Toddie pronounced my knees, collectively a-horsie “bonnie,” and bestrode them, laughing gleefully at my efforts to unseat him, and holding himself in position by