so stirred her ambition that she longed intensely to live them. She, Stephen, now longed to be William Tell, or Nelson, or the whole Charge of Balaclava; and this led to much foraging in the nursery ragbag, much hunting up of garments once used for charades, much swagger and noise, much strutting and posing, and much staring into the mirror. There ensued a period of general confusion when the nursery looked as though smitten by an earthquake; when the chairs and the floor would be littered with oddments that Stephen had dug out but discarded. Once dressed, she would walk away grandly, waving the nurse peremptorily aside, going, as always, in search of Collins, who might have to be stalked to the basement.
Sometimes Collins would play up, especially to Nelson. 'My, but you do look fine!' she would exclaim. And then to the cook: 'Do come here, Mrs. Wilson! Doesn't Miss Stephen look exactly like a boy? I believe she must be a boy with them shoulders, and them funny gawky legs she’s got on her!'
And Stephen would say gravely: 'Yes, of course I'm a boy. I'm young Nelson, and I'm saying: "What is fear?" you know, Collins— I must be a boy, 'cause I feel exactly like one, I feel like young Nelson in the picture upstairs.'
Collins would laugh and so would Mrs. Wilson, and after Stephen had gone they would get talking, and Collins might say: 'She is a queer kid, always dressing herself up and play-acting—it's funny.'
But Mrs. Wilson might show disapproval: 'I don't hold with such nonsense, not for a young lady. Miss Stephen’s quite different from other young ladies—she’s got none of their pretty little ways—it's a pity!'
There were times, however, when Collins seemed sulky, when Stephen could dress up as Nelson in vain. 'Now, don't bother me. Miss, I've got my work to see to!' or: 'You go and show Nurse—yes, I know you're a boy, but I've got my work to get on with. Run away.'
And Stephen must slink upstairs thoroughly deflated, strangely unhappy and exceedingly humble, and must tear off the clothes she so clearly loved donning, to replace them by the garments she hated. How she hated soft dresses and sashes, and ribbons, and small coral beads, and openwork stockings! Her legs felt so free and comfortable in breeches; she adored pockets, too, and these were forbidden—at least really adequate pockets. She would gloom about the nursery be-
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