Grandmother Dear | Page 5

with
her. And not long after, Sylvia and Molly began to look so sleepy, in
spite of their protestations that the dustman's cart was nowhere near
their door, that aunty insisted they must be mistaken, she had heard his
warning bell ringing some minutes ago. So the two little sisters came
round to say good-night.
"Good night, grandmother dear," said Molly, in a voice which tried
hard to be brisk as usual through the sleepiness.
Grandmother laid her hand on her shoulder and looked into her eyes.
Molly had nice eyes when you looked at them closely: they were
honest and candid, though of too pale a blue to show at first sight the
expression they really contained. Just now too, they were blinking and
winking a little. Still grandmother must have been able to read in them
what she wanted, for her face looked satisfied when she withdrew her
gaze.
"So I am really to be 'grandmother dear,' to you, my dear funny little
girl?" she said.
"Of course, grandmother dear. Really, really I mean," said Molly,
laughing at herself. "Do you see it in my eyes?"
"Yes, I think I do. You have nice honest eyes, my little girl."
Molly flushed a little with pleasure. "I thought they were rather ugly.
Ralph calls them 'cats',' and 'boiled gooseberries,'" she said. "Anyway
Sylvia's are much prettier. She has such nice long eyelashes."

"Sylvia's are very sweet," said grandmother, kissing her in turn, "and
we won't make comparisons. Both pairs of eyes will do very well my
darlings, if always
'The light within them, Tender is and true.'
Now good night, and God bless my little grand-daughters. Ralph, you'll
sit up with me a little longer, won't you?"
"What nice funny things grandmother says, doesn't she, Sylvia?" said
Molly, as they were undressing.
"She says nice things," said Sylvia, "I don't know about they're being
funny. You call everything funny, Molly."
"Except you when you're going to bed, for then you're very often rather
cross," said Molly.
But as she was only in fun, Sylvia took it in good part, and, after
kissing each other good night, both little sisters fell asleep without loss
of time.
CHAPTER II.
LOST IN THE LOUVRE.
"Oh how I wish that I had lived In the ages that are gone!"
A CHILD'S WISH.
It was--did I say so before? the children's first visit to Paris. They had
travelled a good deal, for such small people quite "a very good deal," as
Molly used to maintain for the benefit of their less experienced
companions. They knew England, "of course," Ralph would say in his
lordly, big-boy fashion, Scotland too, and Wales, and they had spent
some time in Germany. But they had never been in Paris, and the
excitement on finding the journey safely past and themselves really
there was very considerable.

"And, Molly," said Sylvia, on their way from the railway station to the
hotel where rooms had been engaged for them, "remember you've
promised not to awake me in the middle of the night if you begin
thinking about the top of the bed coming down."
"And, oh, Sylvia! I wish you hadn't reminded me of it just now," said
Molly pathetically, for which all the satisfaction she received was a
somewhat curt observation from Sylvia, that she shouldn't be so silly.
For Sylvia, though in reality the kindest of little elder sisters, was
sometimes inclined to be "short" with poor Molly. Sylvia was clever
and quick, and very "capable," remarkably ready at putting herself, as it
were, in the place of another and seeing for the time being, through his
or her spectacles. While Molly had not got further than opening wide
her eyes, and not unfrequently her mouth too, Sylvia, practical in the
way that only people of lively imagination can be so, had taken in the
whole case, whatever it might be, and set her ready wits to work as to
the best thing to be said or done. And Molly would wonderingly admire,
and wish she could manage to "think of things" the way Sylvia did.
They loved each other dearly, these two--but to-night they were tired,
and when people, not children only, big people too, very often--are
tried, it is only a very little step to being cross and snappish. And when
aunty, tired too, and annoyed by the unamiable tones, turned round to
beg them to "try to leave off squabbling; it was so thoughtless of them
to disturb their grandmother," two or three big tears welled up in
Molly's eyes, though it was too dark in the omnibus, which was taking
them and their luggage from the station, for any one to see, and she
thought to herself what a terrible disappointment it would be if, after all,