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Teresa had found that a story—one that combined realism with the marvellous—was the best focus for these divergent interests; so she started a story.

The sun was setting; and the border and view, painted on the glass of the nursery windows, grew dim. Some one in the garden whistled the air of:

You made me love you:

I didn’t want to do it,

I didn’t want to do it.

Nanny sat with her sewing, listening too, a pleased smile on her face, the expression of a vague and complex feeling of satisfaction: for one thing, it was all so suitable and what she had been used to in her other places—kind auntie telling the children a story after tea; then there was a sense of “moral uplift” as, doubtless, the story was allegorical; poor Mrs. Sinclair in heaven, too—she would be glad if she could see what a good aunt they had—then there was also a genuine interest in the actual story; for no nurse without a sense of narrative and the marvellous is fit for her post.

“Bed-time, I’m afraid. Kiss kind Auntie and say, ‘Thank you, Auntie, for the nice story.’”