Samuel to notice that this slip of a child always spoke of herself as
old.

"Why don't you do it now?" he asked.

"I'm too tired, I think. But I've a lot of pictures up in my room--
that I cut out of magazines that people gave me. Pictures of beautiful
things--birds and flowers, and old castles, and fine ladies and
gentlemen. And I used to make up stories about them, and imagine that
I was there, and that all sorts of nice things were happening to me.
Would you like to see my pictures?"

"Very much," said Samuel.

"I think of things like that when I listen to Friedrich. I've a
picture of Sir Galahad--he's very beautiful, and he stands at his
horse's head with a sword in his hand. I used to dream that somebody
like that might come and carry me off to a place where there aren't
any mills. But I guess it's no use any more."

"Why not?" asked the other.

"It's too late. There is something the matter with me. I never say
anything, because it would make mother unhappy; but I'm always tired
now, and every day I have a headache. And I'm so very sleepy, and yet
when I lie down I can't sleep--I keep hearing the mill." "Oh!" cried
Samuel involuntarily.

"I don't mind it so much," said the child. "There's no help, so what's
the use. It's only when I hear Friedrich play--then I get all stirred