Emmy turned in a circle. Now, if she were a telescope, where would she hide?

She gazed at her model train set with its miniature town, and then her eyes returned to the toy chest. Might it have rolled under there?

Emmy reached beneath. “Come on, spyglass,” she muttered, and gave a cry of triumph as she grasped something long and skinny. She pulled it out, covered in dust, and sneezed.

It was not the telescope after all. It was Miss Barmy’s old cane, the cane she had whittled herself. It was carved with little faces, their hair intertwined and their expressions pleading, and Emmy recoiled as she saw it.

Miss Barmy had told her that they were the faces of girls she had taken care of. She had said that she was saving a blank patch for Emmy’s face, someday...

Every grownup who had seen the cane told Emmy she was lucky to have such a creative nanny. But something about the little faces had always bothered Emmy; and whatever might have happened to the other girls carved on the cane, Emmy was terribly glad it had not happened to her.