her. But the curious part of the performance was the little maid's firm belief that the stories came out of the ribbons. I have known her run to her mother with a doleful face and a piece of new blue ribbon in her hands, complaining, “Oh, Mamma, this is such a stupid ribben! It has no stories in it. I have tried it with all sorts of things, and it will not say a word. Will you

give me another bit, please?"

Sometimes she had two or three lengths cut off before she could find one to please her. The real secret of course lay in her sense of touch, which was as acute and delicate as that of a blind person. A corded ribbon was her deepest aversion. "It goes so slow, and is so clumsy," she cried impatiently; whilst satin "went too fast, and talked nonsense; but a nice thick and yet soft piece of silk ribbon, without any edge to check the rapid play of the little fingers, was just the thing, and "full of stories."

Beyond a dim, general impr ssion of the plot

of the tale, the child could not be brought to recollect the details which gave to her hidden hearers such a vivid idea of how real this world of stories was to their little teller, and I used often to repeat them to her in the hope that she would correct me if I had made a mistake; but to my disappointment Ethel would listen to my story as if it were new, clapping her hands and laughing, or looking sad and downcast as the tale varied from gay to grave. Sometimes she carried her impertinence so far as to beg me to tell her an old "ribbon story;" but this request I indignantly refused, and it came at last to be regarded as a challenge for a game of romps.

So although Ethel has heard all these stories repeated back again to her, they will probably seem as new to her as they will to you, and I hope she will not be ashamed of them. We have agreed between us, that whatever shortcomings they may be found to possess, the blame

is to be equally divided between her and me for not telling it properly; for "it could not have been the ribbon's fault," says Ethel most emphatically.

CHAPTER I.

ELLA'S DREAM.

ELLA was a little girl as big as me. She was a very pretty little thing, but oh so "'quisitive!" All day long she used to ask her mamma and her Miss Kirke questions about everything; and even at night she dropped to sleep asking Nurse, "But what becomes of Ella when her eyes are shut? How is it that she sees all the same, and even better than when her eyes are open? Has she another pair of night-eyes like the owls, Nursey dear; or how is it?" Luckily Miss Ella had shut her eyes and gone off sound asleep before Nurse could think of anything to say. Indeed, the great comfort with this little girl was that

she asked so many questions about everything, that if you were not in a hurry, and pretended to be thinking of something to answer, she would be quite sure to fly off to another question, and then before that was answered, to another; and so on all day long.

Strangers and visitors used to say, when Ella inquired what made their watches tick, or if their gowns had come off a sheep's back, or out of a worm's mouth, "Dear me, what a clever, intelligent little girl!" and they would politely explain to her, so far as they knew themselves, how everything she asked about was made; but they soon found that it was not of much use. Before one question was half answered, Ella's mind had flown off to something else, and she did not listen or try to understand what the kind person was taking so much trouble to explain, so her mamma's friends soon gave her up in despair, and only said, "We are going to see Mrs. So and So. I do hope that horrid, tiresome