Little Betty Harris sat in the big window, bending over her gods and goddesses and temples and ruins. It was months since, under the inspiration of the mysterious, fruit-dealing Greek, she had begun her study of Greek art; and the photographs gathered from every source—were piled high in the window—prints and tiny replicas¹ and casts, and pictures of every kind and size—they overflowed² into the great room beyond. She was busy now, pasting the photographs into a big book. To-morrow the family started for the country, and only as many gods could go as could be pasted in the book. Miss Stone had decreed it and what Miss Stone said must be done.... Betty Harris looked anxiously at Poseidon, and laid him down, in favour of Zeus. She took him up in her fingers again, with a little flourish of the paste-tube, and made him fast. Poseidon must go, too. The paste-tub wavered uncertainly over the maze³ of gods and found another and stuck it in place, and lifted itself in admiring delight.  
There was a little rustle⁴, and the child looked up. Miss Stone stood in the doorway⁵, smiling at her.
 
“I’m making my book for the gods,” said the child, her flushed face lighting⁶. “It’s a kind of home for them.” She slipped down from her chair and came across, holding the book outstretched before her. “You see I’ve put Poseidon in. He never had a home—except just the sea, of course—a kind of wet home.” She gave the god a little pat, regarding him fondly.
 
Miss Stone bent⁷ above the book, with the smile of understanding that always lay between them. When Betty Harris thought about God, he seemed always, somehow, like Miss Stone’s smile—but bigger—because he filled the whole earth. She lifted her hand and stroked the cheek bending above her book. “I’m making a place for them all,” she said. “It’s a kind of story—” She drew a sigh of quick delight.
 
Miss Stone closed the book decisively, touching⁹ the flushed face with her fingers. “Put it away, child—and the pictures. We’re going to drive.”
 
“Yes—Nono.” It was her own pet name for Miss Stone, and she gave a little quick nod, closing the book with happy eyes. But she waited a moment, lugging¹⁰ the book to her and looking at the scattered¹¹ gods in the great window, before she walked demurely¹² across and began gathering¹³ them up—a little puzzled frown between her eyes. “I suppose I couldn’t leave them scattered around?” she suggested politely.
 
Miss Stone smiled a little head-shake, and the child bent again to her work. “I don’t like to pick up,” she said softly. “It’s more interesting not to pick up—ever.” She lifted her face from a print of Apollo and looked at Miss Stone intently. “There might be gods that could pick up—pick themselves up, perhaps—?” It was a polite suggestion—but there was a look in the dark face—the look of the meat-packer’s daughter—something that darted¹⁴ ahead and compelled gods to pick themselves up. She bent again, the little sigh checking itself on her lip. Miss Stone did not like to have little girls object—and it was not polite, and besides you had to take care of things—your own things. The servants took care of the house for you, and brought you things to eat, and made beds for you, and fed the horses and ironed clothes... but your own things—the gods and temples and scrapbooks and paste that you left lying about—you had to put away yourself! Her fingers found the paste-tube and screwed it firmly in place—with a little twist of the small mouth—and hovered¹⁵ above the prints with quick touch. The servants did things—other things. Constance mended your clothes and dressed you, and Marie served you at table, and sometimes she brought a nice little lunch if you were hungry—and you and Miss Stone had it together on the school table—but no one ever—ever—ever—picked up your playthings for you. She thrust the last god into his box and closed the lid firmly. Then she looked up. She was alone in the big room... in the n............