About This Book
Chrissie Fortescue sat looking at her toes. They were pretty little toes, pink and plump and even. But she was not looking at them in admiration. And indeed this morning they were scarcely as pretty as usual, for they were rapidly becoming blue and crimson, instead of merely pink, and though blue and crimson are charming colours in themselves, they are not seen to advantage on toes. It was wintry weather, as you will already, I daresay, have guessed, and very cold indeed, and as the unpleasant consciousness of this made itself felt more and more plainly, Chrissie's face grew crosser and crosser. "Nurse," she called out, and it was the third or fourth time that she had done so, "Nurse, will you come and put on my stockings? I am getting quite frozen." There was no answer for a moment or two, then Nurse's face appeared at the door leading from, the little girls' room into the large day nursery, where the table was already neatly spread for breakfast and a bright fire blazing. "Miss Chrissie," said Nurse, remaining in the doorway, "it is no use—no use whatever your going on calling to me like that. I have told you ever so many times this morning that I won't and can't put on your stockings for you. I promised your Mamma before she went away yesterday that I would not, and I cannot break my promise."
