"Sweet Content." That was my name when I was a very tiny child. It may sound rather conceited to tell this of myself, but when I have told all the story I am now beginning, I don't think, at least I hope, you, whoever you are that read it, won't say I am conceited. Indeed, if I thought anyone I knew, or rather that knew me, would be likely to read it and to know that the "I" of it was me, I am not by any means sure that I would write it. But, of course, it is not at all certain that it ever will be printed or seen by anyone (except, perhaps, by my children, if, when I am grown up, I am married and have any) who ever heard of me. The world seems to me a very big place; there are such lots and lots of people in it, old ones and children, and middling ones; and they are all busy and taken up about their own affairs. Some other children might like to read my story, just as a story, for I do think some parts of it are rather extra interesting; but it is not probable that any of them would recognise me, or the other "characters" (I think that is the right word) in it. Except-except some of the other characters themselves! They don't know I am writing it, perhaps they never will know about it; but if they did-yes, even if they read every word of it-I don't think I'd mind. They are so truly no, I mustn't begin telling about them like that; you will understand, all in good time, why, least of any people in the world, perhaps, I should mind their reading the exactly how it was of everything I have to tell. This shows how perfectly I can trust them. And in saying even that, though I really couldn't help it, I'm afraid I have already got rather out of the proper orderly way of telling a story. I will start clearly now. What I have written already is a sort of preface or introduction. And it has a much better chance of being read than if I had put it separately. As I began about my baby name, and as I am going to use it for a title-for several reasons, as you will see I will
