a mug on the washstand, Becky. Oh—and bring the soap dish for a centerpiece.”
Becky handed them to her reverently.
“What are they now, miss?” she inquired. “You’d think they was made of crockery—but I know they ain’t.”
“This is a carven flagon,” said Sara, arranging tendrils of the wreath about the mug. “And this”—bending tenderly over the soap dish and heaping it with roses—“is purest alabaster encrusted with gems.”
She touched the things gently, a happy smile hovering about her lips which
that it could only have been heard in entire stillness. She did it several times, looking entirely absorbed in it. Ermengarde thought she looked as if she were working a spell. And at last, evidently in response to it, a gray-whiskered, bright-eyed head peeped out of the hole. Sara had some crumbs in