The Air Was Full Of Spices... A

If You Look The Right Way, You Can See That The Whole World Is A Garden.

But I Suppose There Might Be Good In Things, Even If We Don't See It.

On The Hob Was A Little Brass Kettle, Hissing And Boiling; Spread Upon The Floor Was A Warm, Thick Rug; Before The Fire Was A Folding-chair, Unfolded And With Cushions On It; By The Chair Was A Small Folding-table, Unfolded, Covered With A White Cloth, And Upon It Were Spread Small Covered Dishes, A Cup And Saucer, And A Tea-pot; On The Bed Were New, Warm Coverings, A Curious Wadded Silk Robe, And Some Books. The Little, Cold, Miserable Room Seemed Changed Into Fairyland. It Was Actually Warm And Glowing.

Perhaps I Have Not Really A Good Temper At All, But If You Have Everything You Want And Everyone Is Kind To You, How Can You Help But Be Good-tempered? Perhaps I'm A Hideous Child, And No One Will Ever Know, Just Because I Never Have Any Trials.

And They Both Began To Laugh Over Nothing As Children Will When They Are Happy Together. And They Laughed So That In The End They Were Making As Much Noise As If They Had Been Two Ordinary Healthy Natural Ten-year-old Creatures—instead Of A Hard, Little, Unloving Girl And A Sickly Boy Who Believed That He Was Going To Die.