Grown people have such an exasperating way of saying, "Now, when I was a little girl -" Then, just as you prick up the little white ears of your mind for a story, they finish, loftily, "I did - or didn't do - so-and-so." It is certainly an underhand way of suggesting that you stop doing something pleasant, or begin doing something unplea-sant; and you would not have thought that Sara's dear mother would have had so unworthy a habit. But a stern regard for the truth compels me to admit that she had. You see, Sara's dear mother was, indeed, most dear; but very self-willed and contrary. Her great fault was that she was always busy at something. She would darn, and she would write, and she would read dark-colored books without pictures. When Sara compared her with other mothers of her acquaintance, or when this very contrary own-mother went away for a day, she seemed indeed to Sara quite desperately perfect. But on ordinary days Sara was darkly aware, in the clearest part of her mind - the upper right-hand corner near the window - that her mother, with all her charm, really did need to be remoulded nearer to her heart's desire.