on the fact that, although most children are egoists, JULIA SANBY
seemed to take more pleasure in talking about GAZEY than in discussing
herself. I had distinct suspicions.

"Could you remember any of GAZEY's stories?"

"Might, p'raps."

"Go on, then. Tell me one."

She began a story, which was obviously an improvisation, with little
incidents taken from other stories added to it. It was full of the
wildest imaginings. She told it without the least nervousness or
embarrassment. Her assumption of demureness and sanctity vanished
utterly. She became vivid and dramatic. "An' I'd tike my gorspil oath
it's all true," she added, at the conclusion, as if from force of
habit.

"JULIA SANBY," I said, "GAZEY has not got golden hair nor blue eyes,
neither is she pretty. _You_ are GAZEY."

"I swear I ain't. I'm a good girl, and knows my colics; GAZEY's
something orful."

"Very well," I answered, and went on finishing the sketch, as though
I took no interest in her. After a few seconds' silence, she added,
quite calmly,

"Owdjer know? I can pretend proper, cawn't I? But I 'adn't never
talked about myself as if I was someone else afore. That pickshur