. . . Of course, I couldn’t. I had my young ladies. And what would I have looked like perched up there in my uniform? But all the rest of the day it was donkeys—donkeys on the brain with me. I felt I should have burst if I didn’t tell some one; and who was there to tell? But when I went to bed—I was sleeping in Mrs. James’s bedroom, our cook that was, at the time—as soon as the lights was out, there they were, my donkeys, jingling along, with their neat little feet and sad eyes. . . . Well, madam, would you believe it, I waited for a long time and pretended to be asleep, and then suddenly I sat up and called out as loud as I could, “I do want to go on a donkey. I do want a donkey-ride!” You see, I had to say it, and I thought they wouldn’t laugh at me if they knew I was only dreaming. Artful—wasn’t it? Just what a silly child would think. . . .
. . . No, madam, never now. Of course, I did think of it at one time. But it wasn’t to be. He had a little flower-shop just down the road and across from where we was living. Funny—wasn’t it? And me such a one for flowers. We were having a lot of company at the time, and I was in and out of the shop more often than not, as the saying is. And Harry and I (his name was Harry) got to quarrelling about how things ought to be arranged—and that began it. Flowers! you
