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.