“Never mind,” said Dot, “I don’t care; and I’ve asked for a story, and we’re going into the library.”  As Dot said this, she jerked her head expressively in the direction of the sofa, where Aunt Penelope was just casting on stitches preparatory to beginning a pair of her famous ribbed socks for Papa, whilst she gave to Mamma’s conversation that sympathy which (like her knitting-needles) was always at the service of her large circle of friends.  Dot anxiously watched the bow on the top of her cap as it danced and nodded with the force of Mamma’s observations.  At last it gave a little chorus of jerks, as one should say, “Certainly, undoubtedly.”  And then the story came to an end, and Dot, who had been slowly creeping nearer, fairly took Aunt Penelope by the hand, and carried her off, knitting and all, to the library.

“Now, please,” said Dot, when she had struggled into a chair that was too tall for her.

“Stop a minute!” cried Sam, who was perched in the opposite one, “the horse-hair tickles my legs.”

“Put your pocket-handkerchief under them, as I do,” said Dot. “Now, Aunt Penelope.”

“No, wait,” groaned Sam; “it isn’t big enough; it only covers one leg.”

Dot slid down again, and ran to Sam.

“Take my handkerchief for the other.”

“But what will you do?” said Sam.

“Oh, I don’t care,” said Dot, scrambling back into her place.  “Now, Aunty, please.”

And Aunt Penelope began.

“THE LAND OF LOST TOYS.

“I suppose people who have children transfer their childish follies and fancies to them, and become properly sedate and grown-up.  Perhaps it is because I am an old maid, and have none, that some of my nursery whims stick to me, and I find myself liking things, and wanting things, quite out of keeping with my cap and time of life.  For instance.  Anything in the shape of a toy-shop (from a London bazaar to a village window, with Dutch dolls, leather balls, and wooden battledores) quite unnerves me, so to speak.  When I see one of those boxes containing a jar, a churn, a kettle, a pan, a coffee-pot, a cauldron on three legs, and sundry dishes, all of the smoothest wood, and with the immemorial red flower on one side of each vessel, I fairly long for an excuse for playing with them, and for trying (positively for the last time) if the lids do come off, and whether the kettle will (literally, as well as metaphorically) hold water.  Then if, by good or ill luck, there is a child flattening its little nose against the window with longing eyes, my purse is soon empty; and as it toddles off with a square parcel under one arm, and a lovely being in black ringlets and white tissue paper in the other, I wish that I were worthy of being asked to join the ensuing play.  Don’t suppose there is any generosity in this.  I have only done what we are all glad to do.  I have found an excuse for indulging a pet weakness.  As I said, it is not merely the new and expensive toys that attract me; I think my weakest corner is where the penny boxes lie, the wooden tea-things (with the above-named flower in miniature), the soldiers on their lazy tongs, the nine-pins, and the tiny farm.