how it’s always seemed to me about remembering and forgetting. And if there’s any name I want to remember very much I say it out loud to myself two or three times, and that seems to press it into my mind. Dear, dear, how well I remember doing that way at school when I was a little girl. There was the kings and queens, do what I would, I couldn’t remember how their names came, till I got that way of saying two or three together, like ‘William and Mary, Anne, George the First,’ over and over.”

The children listened with great interest to nurse’s recollections, the boys especially, that is to say; the talk was rather too difficult for Mary to understand. But her face looked very grave; she seemed to be listening to what nurse said, and yet thinking of something behind it. All at once her eyes grew bright and a smile broke out like a ray of sunshine.

“I ’amember,” she said joyfully. “Nursie said her couldn’t ’amember names. It was names papa said. He said us was to fink of a name for baby.”

“Oh, is that what you’ve been fussing about?” said Leigh. “I could have told you that long ago. I’ve fixed what I want her to be called. I’ve thought of a very pretty name.”

Mary looked rather sorry.

“I can’t fink of any names,” she said; “I can only fink of ‘Mary.’ Can’t her be called ‘Mary,’ ’cos it’s my birfday?”

Leigh and Artie both began to laugh.

“What a silly girl you are,” said Leigh; “how could you have two people in one family with the same name? Whenever we called ‘Mary,’ you’d never know if it was you or the baby we meant.”

“You could say ‘baby Mary,’” said Mary, who did not like to be called a silly girl.

“And when she was big,” said Leigh, “how would she like to be called ‘baby’?”

Mary had not thought of this, still she would not give in.

“Peoples has the same names,” she said. “Papa’s name’s ‘Leigh,’ and your name’s ‘Leigh,’—there now—” and as another idea struck her, “and us all is called Bertum. Papa’s Mr Bertum and mamma’s Mrs Bertum and—and—”

“And you’re ‘Miss Bertum,’” said Leigh, laughing. “But that’s because Bertram is our family name, you see, Mary. We’ve each got a first name too. It doesn’t much matter papa and me being the same, except that sometimes I think mamma’s calling me when she means papa, but it would never do if Artie and I had the same name. Fancy, if we were both called ‘Artie,’ we’d never know which you meant.”

“No,” said Mary, laughing too, “it would be a very bad plan. I never thought of that. But I can’t think of a pitty name for dear little baby.”

“There’s lots,” said Artie, who had been sitting very silent—to tell the truth, he had forgotten all about choosing a name, but he did not want to say so. So he had been thinking of all the names he could, so that he might seem quite as ready as Leigh. “There’s Cowslip and Buttercup and Firefly and—”

“Nonsense,” said Leigh, “considering you’re six years old, Artie, you’re sillier than Mary. Those are cows’ names, and—”

“They’re not—not all of them,” said Artie, “Firefly’s a pony’s name. It’s little Ella Curry’s pony’s name, and I think it’s very pretty.”

“For a pony perhaps,” said nurse, “but then you see, Master Artie, your little sister isn’t a pony.”

“I wish she was,” said Leigh, and when nurse looked up astonished he looked rather ashamed. “Of course I don’t mean that it isn’t nice for her to be a little girl,” he went on, “but I do so wish we had a pony.”

“You may just be patient for a while, Master Leigh,” said nurse; “you know your papa’s promised you a pony when you’re ten years old, and by that time baby will be nearly two.”

“That won’t matter,” said Leigh, “even Mary won’t be able to ride my pony. It’s to be a real sensible one, not a stupid donkey sort of pony, with panniers or a basket on its back.”

“No,” said Artie, “it’s to be a galoppy-trot one! Won’t we make him go, Leigh.”

“I shall,” said Leigh; “you won’t have much to say to it. You’ll be too little too.”

Artie’s face fell. Mary, who was sitting beside him, slipped her little hand into his.

“Nebber mind, Artie,” she said. “We’ll ask papa to give us anoder pony. A very gentle one for you and me and baby.”

“A perambulator will be more in baby’s way,” said nurse. “Miss Mary’s old one is quite worn out and they do make such pretty ones nowadays. I hope your mamma will get her a very nice one.”

“And may we push it sometimes?” said Artie, brightening up again, “that would be nice.”

Leigh gave a little laugh.

“What a baby you are, Artie,” he was beginning, but nurse, who saw that he was in one of his teasing humours, looked up quickly.

“It’s such a fine evening,” she said, “and it’s scarcely five o’clock. How would you like to go out a little walk? We didn’t go very far to-day. We might go as far as the Lavender Cottages, I’ve something to take there from your mamma.”

The boys looked very pleased.

“Oh yes, nurse,” they said, “do let’s go out.”

“And mayn’t we stop and see the puppies at the smithy on the way?” Leigh went on.

“I’m f’ightened of those little barky dogs,” said Mary; “I don’t want to go out, nurse, I’m sleepy.”

“It’ll do you good, my dear, to have a little walk before you go to bed; you’ll sleep all the better for it and wake all the fresher in the morning,” and a few minutes afterwards, when the little party were walking down the drive, Mary looked quite bright again.

It was a very lovely evening. The way to the Lavender Cottages lay across the fields, and, as every one knows, there is nothing prettier than a long stretch of grass land with the tender spring green lighted up by late afternoon sunshine.

Mary trotted along contentedly, thinking to herself.

“My birfday’s going to bed soon,” she thought, “and to-morrow morning it’ll be gone—gone away for a long, long time,” and she gave a little sigh. “But somefins won’t be gone away, all my birfday presents will stay, and baby sister will stay, and when my birfday comes back again it will be hers too. Dear little baby sister! I wish her had comed out a walk wif us, the sun is so pitty.”

The smithy was at the foot of the road leading up to the cottages, just opposite the stile by which they left the fields. This stile had three steps up and three steps down, with a bar of wood to clamber across at the top. It was one of the children’s favourite stiles, as the boys always pretended that the bar was a pony on which they had a ride on the way over. To-day nurse and Mary waited patiently till they had ridden far enough. Then Artie hopped down the other side and Leigh stood at the top to help his sister over, for though he was a teasing boy sometimes, he never forgot that she was a little girl and that it was his place to take care of her.

“Leigh,” said Mary, as he was lifting her down, “I is so f’ightened of those little dogs! Please