Front matter (continued 3)

"One service more we dare to ask:

Pray for us, heroes, pray,

That when Pate lays on us our task,

We do not shame the day."

"How rummy of me!" quoth Johnny to himself as he snuggled down in bed. "I've got that Mutiny dinner on the brain." And then he fell asleep.

Later on he began to dream. He dreamt that he was in the sick-room at school and that he had a very bad cough—a tickling, tiresome, choking cough. He implored the matron to give him some water, but she only laughed at him and hurried out of the room. And the cough grew worse and worse till he thought he should choke. It was so unlike matron, too, to be hard-hearted and unsympathetic, that Johnny grew very angry, and he tried to shout at her but the cough wouldn't let him. Still, he must have managed to make a considerable noise, for the sound of his own voice woke him up, and as he opened his eyes they began to smart violently. He sat up in bed still coughing and choking, and it was gradually revealed to him that the room was full of smoke.

Now Johnny had no fire in his bedroom, for the whole house was heated by hot pipes. Not long ago, too, grandfather had put in the electric light. Johnny turned on the switch at the head of his bed, but no light came.

He sat perfectly still for a few seconds realising the while that the house must assuredly be on fire somewhere. Then he leapt out of bed and flung his window wide open. He hung out of the window and filled his lungs with the good fresh air.

He was wideawake now and quite able to understand that there was danger. His first impulse was to get out of the window and scramble down into safety by the ivy on the wall. His room was on the first floor, the rooms were low and old-fashioned, and he had done it before. Just as he was preparing to scramble out he remembered the servants. The women all slept at the end of a long passage (which went the whole length of the house) through a swing door. Johnny's end was quite unoccupied, as grandfather had taken his own man with him; the lady who did the housekeeping had gone back to her own home for Christmas, and there were no visitors just then. Ridgeway slept in a wing room built over the pantry close to the back staircase. Half-way down the passage was the turret staircase, and in the turret hung the great bell to be rung to rouse the servants in case of fire or sudden illness.

Johnny drew in his head and turned back into his room. The smoke was not quite so bad now, but it was very dark; He opened the door, and as he did so there flowed in great waves and gusts of smoke that drove him back into the room again.

It would be much easier to get out of the window and go round to ring the front-door bell, or throw stones at the servants' windows, or do anything rather than face that stinging, stifling darkness which was not black but grey.

It drove him back to the window again, the window with its easy drop out into the sate, kind night of stars and watery moon and cold wet air.

But the servants! How was he to warn the servants?

And the fire might be spreading. He felt his way to the washstand and dipped one of the towels in water. He wrapped it round his neck like a muffler, covering mouth and nose, and then he opened his door again, ran down the smoke-packed passage as fast as he could; and up the little staircase to the belfry, where he fell gasping, for the acrid smoke was terrible.

Here it was better, for the belfry tower was open to the night. Johnny seized the rope and pulled for dear life. How long must he ring before they would all be roused?

It was a big, loud bell: he heard it clanging overhead, and insensibly it seemed to swing to the rhythm of these words:

"Pray for us, heroes, pray,

That when Fate lays on us our task,

We do not shame the day."

Johnny's arms were tired and his bare feet were cold. Would they hear? Had he rung long enough? Might he go back to his room now and get out of the window?

The smoke was creeping up into the belfry. It was the smoke, of course, that made the tears come into his eyes.

Clang, clang, clang, clang—clang, clang!

Johnny loosed the rope for a minute and listened.

Yes; he heard shouts.

They were roused, then: just a few more pulls and he might go.

The terrified maidservants came huddling down the back staircase and out at the back door. Men came from the stables, and the lodge, and the gardeners' cottages, and Ridgeway dropped from his window, for he could not face the smoke in the passage.

The fire was in the front of the house in the main wing; the dining room was undoubtedly in flames, and the men went round to the front with the hose while one of the grooms galloped off to the nearest town for the fire engine.

Ridgeway was the last to join the frightened group outside the back door, and his first question was, "Where's Master Johnny?"

It took several minutes of most violent language before he discovered that no one had seen Master Johnny, but his window was open, and he must have got out that way: "he was active as a cat."

But Johnny was not with the men.

"Who rang the alarm bell?" Ridgeway shouted.

Apparently no one had rung the alarm bell.

A ladder was set against Johnny's window, and Ridgeway went up and into Johnny's room.

Twice the volumes of smoke drove him back from the door, for Ridgeway had never done fire-drill at school, and knew nothing of the advantages of a wet towel; but the third time he made a dash down the passage and reached the belfry stairs. At the foot of the steps he trod upon something soft and, stooping, picked up Johnny in his arms and staggered back again.

When he appeared at the window with his burden the men sent up a cheer, but Ridgeway gave a hard, dry sob and muttered, "If 'e's dead I'm goin' back into the 'ouse; I'll never face the General."

All the same Ridgeway was the first to face the General when that aged warrior arrived at his drive gate early on Christmas morning. He faced the General with the intelligence that he would find his dining-room, his hall, and a great part of his staircase a mass of charred ruins by reason of the fusing of the wires of the recently installed electric light. And Ridgeway further related that to the General which almost consoled him for the state of chaos in which he found his household.

The General's own man had got out when Ridgeway stopped the motor at the drive gate. He and Ridgeway stood side by side at the door of the brougham while Ridgeway spoke.

"You've made it pretty clear that the boy saved the lot of you," said the General. "But who the dickens fetched the boy out of all that smother? Tell me that, now!"

Ridgeway passed his hand over his very rough chin and looked foolish, saying never a word.

"Get in, man!" said the General, "get in. Do you think we can loaf about here all day—get in!" and the General dragged Ridgeway into the motor with both hands.

As the motor rounded the last corner of the drive, the General beheld, as through a mist, a little figure in an Eton jacket standing outside the bulged and blackened front door.

The figure waved cheerfully and ran to assist the General to alight.

The old soldier grasped Johnny by the shoulder and shook him gently:

"You're a nice person to leave in charge!" he roared. "What have you got to say for yourself, hey?"

Johnny grinned. "You're very well up to time, sir," he said cheerily. "We'll have to have breakfast in the housekeeper's room, for you never saw such a beastly mess in all your life!"

XIII

A GIOTTO OF THE COTSWOLDS

When Mary Cardross first saw Jethro he was six years old, and still wore petticoats. He was not particularly small for his age, and his appearance was, to say the least of it, peculiar. A cotton frock, made with skirt and body like a housemaid's morning dress, reached to his ankles; and he seemed to have very little underneath, for this outer garment hung limp and straight from waist to heel, except on Sundays, when, fresh from the hands of his aunt, it stuck out all round like a lamp-shade. His hair, cropped very short round the edges, was several inches long on the crown. Mrs. Gegg, by courtesy his "aunt," did not even put a basin on his head by way of guide in the shearing, but, brushing all the hair forward from the centre of the crown, laid the scissors against his forehead, and cut the hair close to the skin all round. It grew again quickly, and stuck out above his temples like a new straw thatch.

"Isn't he rather a big boy for petticoats?" Mary asked, as her landlady removed the supper, pausing at intervals to explain Jethro's presence under her roof.

"Yes, 'e be a biggish boy, but I hain't a-goin' to be at no expense for 'im as I can 'elp. 'E can wait cum Christmas for 'is trowsies. 'E ought to be thankful as 'e weren't tuk to the workus, an' me only 'is mother's cousin, though 'e do call me haunt. 'E be a great expense, and I've 'ad 'im this two year. The most onandiest, nothingly child you ever see,—always a-scribblin' and a-messin' and moonin'. I don't set no store by Jethro, I can tell you, Miss! 'E's got to be brought up 'ard to hearn 'is own livin'"—and Mrs. Gegg paused breathless. Mary said nothing, but she felt rather sorry for Jethro.

Had Mrs. Gegg lived anywhere but in the lovely, lonely Cotswold village perched like a smiling fastness in the midst of beech-clad hills, reached only by the loosest and worst of roads, she would hardly have dared to dress a six-year boy in such extraordinary fashion. Public opinion would have been too strong for her. But Nookham, with its dozen cottages, lived and let live in easy apathy, and Jethro in bitterness of spirit wore his cotton frock. Two years ago Mary had discovered Nookham. Friends had driven her over to have tea in the woods, and to gather the wild strawberries found there in such abundance. She fell in love with the place, and came again upon a private exploring expedition, when she discovered that lodgings were to be had at the post-office, in the house of one Mrs. Gegg. There she spent a most delightful fortnight, sketching. Never was more attentive and honest landlady, never cleaner, more orderly house! It is true that Mary's painting tackle greatly distressed her hostess, partaking as it did of the nature of things "messy and slummicky," which her soul abhorred. Otherwise, she liked Mary, as did most people; and she had in her way great toleration for the "curus ways" of the "gentry" generally, expecting less of them in the matter of common sense than she exacted from people of her own class. And now, after two years in Italy, Mary found herself once more in the dear Cotswold country, in the very middle of a perfect June. Nookham generally was unfeignedly pleased to see her again. Few strangers came to stay there, and the roads were too bad and too hilly for even the ubiquitous cyclist. The squire's house was three miles from the village, the vicarage two, and the tall lady with the abundant wavy grey hair and strong, kind face had made a very distinct and pleasant impression.

Mary did not catch a glimpse of Jethro during her first day until, happening at post-time to want a letter she had left in her bedroom, she ran upstairs to fetch it.

The room, with door flung wide, faced the narrow staircase. In the very middle of the floor stood Jethro, in rapt contemplation of a large photograph of Giovanni Bellini's Madonna,—the one in the sacristy of the Frari at Venice—which Mary had placed on the little mantelpiece.

The day was well on in the week, the cotton frock hung in limp and draggled folds about the childish limbs, and the queer little creature's attitude was almost pathetically boyish as he stood, legs far apart, his hands grasping the lilac cotton where pockets ought to have been.

For a full minute Mary stood watching him. He made no attempt to touch the picture; in fact—and afterwards the circumstance seemed significant—he stood at some distance from it, that he might see it whole.

Mary must have moved, for the stairs creaked. Jethro jumped, did not even turn his head to see who was coming, but darted under the bed with the instant speed of a startled squirrel. She came into the room, shut the door, and sat down on her trunk, remarking, "If you come out I'll show you some more pictures!" Dead silence for five minutes, while Mary sat patiently waiting. She was determined that she would in no way frighten or constrain the timid child, for it seemed to her that the little Cotswold peasant who stood gazing with absorbed interest at her favourite Madonna must be worth knowing.

"I can't think why you stay under there, Jethro," she said at last; "we could have such a nice time together if you would come out, and I must go directly to finish my letters."

But, like Brer Rabbit, Jethro "lay low and said nuffin'", so Mary was fain to go and finish her letters, determined to play a waiting game. From time to time she stopped writing, looking pained and puzzled. "It is dreadful that a little child should be so afraid of one," she said to herself; "what can they have done to him?" Presently Jethro rushed past the open door, and later on there came from the direction of the back kitchen a sound uncommonly like smacks.

Mrs. Gegg laid the supper as though she were dealing cards with the angry emphasis indulged in by certain Bridge players after a series of bad hands. Mary ventured on a timid remark to the effect that Nookham had changed but little during her two years absence. Mrs. Gegg replied that "Squire didn't encourage no fancy building," and that therefore it was likely to remain the same for some time to come. Conversation languished, and she went into the garden to "take in" certain exquisitely white garments still spread upon the currant bushes while Mary stood at the front door waiting for the nightingale to "touch his lyre of gold," when another and very different sound broke into the scented stillness—a breathless, broken sound of sobs—a child's sobs. She listened for a moment, then turned and went back into the house to follow the sound. From the landing window she noted with relief that Mrs. Gegg was engaged in converse with a neighbour (Mary stood in great awe of her landlady); she mounted a ladder leading to the attic, and there, under the slates, lying full length on the outside of his clean little bed, was Jethro, sobbing with an abandon and intensity that left Mary in no doubt as to what she should do this time. Bumping her head violently, and nearly driving it through the slates in her haste, for she could by no means stand upright, she climbed in and reached the side of the bed.

Her entrance was so noisy that the child had plenty of time to vanish, as he had done in the afternoon; but he was evidently so astonished by her appearance that no thought of flight occurred to him; he even forgot to be frightened, left off crying, and asked eagerly:

"Did you 'urt your 'ead?"

"No, not much. I heard you crying, and came to see what was the matter."

Jethro looked queerer than ever. He wore a voluminous unbleached calico nightgown, several sizes too big for him; the big tears on his cheeks' shone like jewels in the soft June twilight, and the thatch of tow-coloured hair was rumpled into a quick-set hedge above his great, grave forehead.

"I've bin beat," he whispered.

"Why, what had you done?"

"I thrown a stwun at Earny Mustoe akez 'e did call oi 'Jemima,' and it did break 's mother's windy."

"Is he bigger than you?"

"Yes, 'e be noine!"

"Then why didn't you go for him and hit him? You couldn't break any windows that way, and it would teach him better manners."

Jethro stared in astonishment at this war-like lady.

"But 'e be ever so much bigger nor me," he exclaimed, "and I be allays beat aterwards"; then, remembering his woes, "and it do 'urt so, it do," and Jethro began to wail again.

Mary gathered the woebegone little figure into her arms and sat down on the floor, saying cheerfully:

"Cheer up, old chap; I'll pay for that window, and you mustn't throw any more stones; and don't cry any more, and we'll have ever such nice times while I'm here."

It was evident that Jethro was not used to being cuddled. He sat stiff and solemn on her knee, staring at her with great puzzled eyes. She talked to him as tender women talk to children, and finally put him to bed, tucked him in, kissed and blessed him, and climbed down the ladder again. Much to her relief she saw that Mrs. Gegg was still in the garden.

Jethro lay awake, staring at a patch of moonlight on the whitewashed wall. Hazily, vaguely, there arose in his mind are collection that at one time some one always tucked him into bed—some one who looked kindly at him. He couldn't remember the face, but the eyes were like the tall lady's—like the lady's in the picture downstairs; and again Jethro wanted to cry, but not because he had been "beat." However, he would not cry; she had asked him not to, and she had such sharp ears, and she would come to see him every night, and she had lots more pictures. Here the tall lady and the lady in the picture became inextricably mixed up, and Jethro slept that blessed sleep of childhood which is oblivion.

"I'd just like to show you, Miss, a present as I've 'ad from my nephew down Cubberly way. 'E's on'y fifteen, and 'e's that clever with 'is fingers——" Mrs. Gegg held up for Mary's admiration a frame made of fir-cones which had been varnished and squeezed together till they looked like a hollow square of highly polished brown sausages. "There, Jethro, if you could make summut like that."

"I likes 'em better a-growin'," said Jethro, softly.

During the scornful scolding that followed Mary watched Jethro. His serene grey eyes under the square, peaceful forehead looked a trifle weary, and he sighed as his aunt harangued him, but he did not seem greatly disturbed. After all, whether people scolded or not, gracious, gentle things continued a-growin', and Jethro through the sweet uses of adversity had early learnt that "Nature, the kind old nurse," never refuses consolation to such of her children as seek it in sweet solitary places with an understanding heart.

Mary found Jethro very difficult to get at. He followed her about, and would sit watching her paint for hours in silent, absolute absorption, but he very seldom spoke himself. One day, as they were walking together down the steep stony road leading to the woods, he suddenly clasped her round the knees, exclaiming, "You be such a dear 'ooman!"

Mary stooped hastily and kissed the little upturned face. In a life compassed about with much affection and many friends no one had ever spoken to her with such a rapture of appreciation, and she fell to thinking how little she had done to deserve it. Two days after she got a letter.

"The mater cannot write herself," it ran, "because she is busy with a big chest in the attic upon which the dust of ages has hitherto been allowed to rest in peace. From time to time you may hear her murmur, 'Six, and an average size. Poor little lad! What a shame!!—this will do, I think.' So you know what is going on. Do you remember the bundles? All neatly docketed—'To fit boy of twelve,' etc. A regular trousseau is coming, so tell that kiddie to cheer up."

Three days later Jethro appeared at school in all the glory of jacket and "trowsies"; and the very boy who had most grievously tormented him about his petticoats chastised another on his behalf who made derisive remarks about a "gal in trowsies." Thus the chief misery in Jethro's life was removed, and he felt that he bade fair to become a social success.

His aunt manifested no objection to the new clothes. A thrifty soul, she believed in taking what she could get, and remarked, quite good-naturedly, that Jethro did look a bit more like other folk now.

"Of a Saturday" Mrs. Gegg "hearth-stoned" the whole of her back kitchen till its spotlessness rivalled that of the whitewashed walls. The placid expectancy of Saturday evening had settled on the village. Mary, tired by her long day's painting, was resting upon the slippery horsehair sofa, and meditating on the impossibility of reproducing on canvas the brilliant transparency of young green larches, when her landlady burst into the room, positively breathless with passion. "Just you come 'ere, miss, and see what that, there mishtiful young imp o' darkness been and done: I'll warm 'im so's 'e shan't forget it in a 'urry!" Mary hastily followed the woman into the sacred back kitchen, and there in a corner near the pump crouched Jethro, one arm curved above his head to protect it from a renewal of the rain of blows that had just fallen, while the floor was decorated by a monochrome landscape, painted by Jethro with Mrs. Gegg's blue-bag.

Mary gazed at it with astonishment. With strong certainty of touch the child had splashed in by means of the coarse blue the stretch of hills that met his eyes every time he went out at Mrs. Gegg's front door. The queer impressionist sketch had atmosphere, distance, and, above all, perspective. "Oh, Mrs. Gegg!" cried Mary, holding back the angry little woman with her strong arms as she was advancing across the picture to wreak fresh vengeance upon Jethro, "leave it! leave it till Monday, and I'll give you blue and whitening to last you a twelve-month. It is a wonderful picture! Some day you will be proud of him. He couldn't help it. We none of us gave him anything to draw on. Why didn't you tell me, child, that you could draw like this?"

Astonishment was cooling Mrs. Gegg's wrath. She had heard, nay, upon one occasion seen, that a pavement artist in distant Gloucester earned good money, though it was but a poor trade. Then there was Miss Cardross, always messing with paints and things;—perhaps she really knew something about it. "If you will leave the picture where it is till Monday," continued Mary, "I will ride over to Colescombe to-morrow and persuade an artist friend to come and look at it, and we will see what can be done for Jethro. Please, Mrs. Gegg!" And Mary got her way.

* * * * *

"You must leave him where he is," said the great art critic to Mary when he had inspected the frescoed floor. "He may be a genius. I think he is. All the more reason to leave him alone just now. Give him paper and paints—lots of them; don't lose sight of him and we'll help him when the right time comes. It hasn't come yet."

So Mary left him in the peace of the kindly Cotswold hills. And while Bellini's Madonna smiles down upon him from the whitewashed attic wall, while sun and cloud make light and shadow for him on beech-clad slope and grassy plain, and life is full "of mysteries and presences, innumerable, of living things," we need not pity Jethro. For, even as one who wandered long ago upon the steeps of far Fièsole found infinite potentialities among solitary places and pleasant pastoral creatures, even so in time to come the little Cotswold peasant may enter into his inheritance in that kingdom where "every colour is lovely and every space is light. The world, the universe, is divine; all sadness is a part of harmony, and all gloom a part of peace."

XIV

THE DAY AFTER

The election was over and Patsey was sad, for her father had lost his seat. Patsey could not altogether understand why her father should be so anxious to sit in that particular House in London when he had so many comfortable chairs in his own. But at eight years old a little girl cannot expect to understand everything, and she was a very humble-minded child. She loved her father dearly, and whatever he wanted, she wanted too, very much indeed; so that when she went downstairs that morning to pour out his coffee, and found him looking so pale and tired in spite of his gay pink coat and beautiful white breeches, for he was going out hunting, she gave him an extra big hug and laid her soft cheek against his, saying, "Dear, dear dad," quite a number of times, and big tears forced themselves out of her eyes and ran down her cheeks, although she did her best to keep them back. As her father kissed her he tasted the wet, salt little cheek, and held her away from him, exclaiming, "How now, Pat! What's the matter? You mustn't fret. We're sportsmen, you know, and we must take a defeat like gentlemen; no grousing. The umpire's decision has gone against us and we must abide by it. Look at me! If I'd been in I'd have been going off to make bad speeches in stuffy committee-rooms; as it is, I'm off for a good day's sport in beautiful soft weather. Which is best, do you think?"

Patsey tried to smile, but she knew very well which her father would have liked best, and her tears came afresh.

"He's a dirty Radical," she sobbed, "a nasty, common working man. I can't think how they could like him better than you—so clean and handsome and good."

Her father wiped the wet little face with his big silk handkercliief, and took her up on his knee.

"I'd rather you didn't repeat what you hear the servants say, Pat," he said gravely. "It's largely a case of 'let the best man win,' and we'll hope he has."

So Patsey cheered up, poured out her father's coffee, and they talked about pleasanter things than the election till she went out on to the steps to see him ride away.

Then everything seemed very flat, for life had been rather exciting lately. It is true that Patsey had never been allowed to take an active part in the election, her father expressing himself somewhat strongly in condemnation of such candidates as "turned their little daughters into sandwich-men and their young sons into phonographs"; but she had been permitted to wear a blue rosette when she drove into the town with her governess. And sometimes people who knew her cheered her as they passed, and it was pleasant to feel so important.

It was curious, too, that although all the servants were so loud in their abuse of the new member, they none of them seemed in the least cast down by the result of the election; and Patsey's gentle little soul was puzzled by a partisanship that loudly disparaged the conqueror while yet it held no sympathy for the vanquished.

All morning it rained, but after lunch the sun came out, and Patsey's governess, who had a cold, bade her put on her overshoes and go and play in the garden, for half an hour by herself.

Now, Patsey's father had given her a bicycle just a week before, and although she was not yet an expert rider, still, she could get along, and it struck her that it would be a good opportunity to practise by riding up and down the drive. A stray gardener helped her on, and she found herself riding so beautifully that when she came to the lodge and saw that the great gates were open, the spirit of adventure seized upon her and bore her through them, out on to the high road.

Patsey had never been in the road alone in all her life before, so that she felt most bold and daring, and the feeling was so new and delightful that she rode on for half a mile, finally turning into a quiet lane that led to the cemetery which lay a couple of miles outside the town. Here it was very muddy, and Patsey had not gone very far before her bicycle skidded violently. She tried to save herself with one foot, but it twisted under her, and she came down with the bicycle on the top of her.

When she tried to get up again she found that one of her ankles was horribly swollen and painful, and that she couldn't stand. It was a very woebegone little figure that sat weeping at the side of the road. The "fond adventure" had indeed ended disastrously, and Patsey bitterly repented her of her enterprise, and longed for her governess or nurse.

It was such a lonely road. Except on Sundays, when people went to take flowers to the cemetery, hardly any one went up or down, and the awful prospect of sitting there till some one should come from home to look for her—and why should they look for her in that particular road?—confronted Patsey with chilly menace.

The January sunshine faded early, and she began to feel very cold.

Presently she heard quick footsteps coming from the direction of the cemetery, and a man appeared in sight. As he reached the prostrate bicycle and the doleful little figure seated beside it, he stopped, exclaiming, "Hullo! What's to do here? Have you tumbled off, my dear? I wouldn't sit there, though, it's so wet."

"I can't get up," poor Patsey faltered; "I've hurt my foot; it's all gone fat and funny, and it does pain so. I can't stand. Oh, could you? could you—call in at my home on your way back and tell them to send the carriage for me? It would be so very kind of you. Do you think you could——?"

The man stooped down and looked at the poor little foot. He touched it gently and shook his head, saying, "It's rather a bad sprain, I fear; just tell me where you live and I'll carry you home. Then they can get a doctor and have it fomented and bound. I'd best tie it up now as well as I can, so as not to shake you more than I can help."

The man took out a large handkerchief of brilliant yellow silk, and Patsey shuddered. "Oh, please don't!" she cried. "I mustn't wear anything yellow, not to-day of all days; it would be so disloyal to daddie. If it must be tied up, please take mine—but I don't think it need be."

As Patsey dragged a damp and dirty little square of once-white cambric from her pocket the man laughed.

"That's no use," he said. "If little Tory ladies go and sprain their ankles just like common folk, they must bear a bandage even if it's the wrong colour."

And without more ado this masterful man bound up the little foot with his gaudy handkerchief very deftly and kindly.

"I hope we shan't meet anybody," said Patsey, when he had lifted her into his arms, having carried the bicycle behind the hedge for safety. "It would be so unkind of me to wear yellow to-day."

The man turned and looked sharply at the pale little face so close to his own, and gave a low whistle.

"Do you know who I am?" Patsey asked with dignity.

"And do you know who I am?" demanded the man.

There flashed an illuminating ray of remembrance into Patsey's mind. She had seen this man before, and he was no other than the "Labour candidate" who had stolen her father's seat.

There was silence for a minute till Patsey said earnestly, "If you know who I am, you need not wonder that I biject to wear anything yellow." Then, for Patsey's father had taught her that other people have political opinions too, "And perhaps you biject just as much to carrying a little blue girl."

The man laughed and held her a little closer as he said, "Far from objecting, I like carrying this little blue girl exceedingly. It's a long time since I carried any little girl," he added sadly.

"Haven't you any little girls of your own?" she asked curiously.

"My little girl lies yonder," said the man, nodding his head in the direction of the cemetery.

Patsey lifted her arm and put it round his neck that he might carry her more easily, and, forgetting all about the yellow handkerchief, exclaimed, "How sad! I am so sorry. My mummy is buried there too. Was your little girl ill a long time? My mummy was, months and months. Was your little girl eight, too, like me?"

"She was just ten when she died," the man said quietly, "but she was nothing like so big or so heavy as you, poor little lass! She died because I could get neither food nor firing for her, and I've just been to her grave...." The man paused, and in quite a different tone continued, "And that's why I stand in your father's shoes to-day, little lady, and perhaps I may help to make it better for other little girls by and by."

"I wish my daddie had known," Patsey said softly. "He would have sent you everything you wanted for her; he would indeed. He's so good to the poor."

The man gave a hard little laugh.

"I've no doubt of it," he said, "but, you see, that's not what we want. We're not over-fond of charity, some of us. Besides, charity's a bit uncertain. What we want is to be able to give our little girls food and firing our own selves. Yes, charity's a bit uncertain and children's appetites uncommonly regular."

"Were you hungry and cold too?" asked Patsey.

Again the man laughed that queer, hard laugh. "It don't hurt a man to be hungry and cold occasionally," he said grimly, "but too much of it breaks a man's spirit. It's seeing them belonging to him hungry and cold and not being able to help them that puts the devil into a man. I beg your pardon, little lady, but there's no other word."

By this time they had turned into Patsey's own drive. The sun was setting behind the house, gorgeous and golden, and the mellow light fell full on the face of the "dirty Radical" who carried Patsey. She considered him carefully. It was a sad face, strong and lined with hardship and suffering, but there was something in the expression of his eyes that made her forget his politics, and she patted his shoulder, saying warmly, "I hope you will succeed, indeed I do."

Her father, still in his muddy hunting things, was standing on the steps looking anxiously down the drive. When he saw them he ran forward, exclaiming anxiously, "Patsey, my darling, what has happened?"

"It's all right, daddie," Patsey called back. "I've had a spill off my bicycle, and this ... gentleman found me and has carried me all the way home."

Patsey's father smiled a whimsical smile as he held out his arms for her, and as the muddy little figure changed hands, he said, "You are evidently determined to benefit all your constituents, sir."

The Labour member smiled too, but his face was very sad as he answered, "You might have my place and welcome, if I could have what you hold in your arms."

Without another word he turned and walked swiftly down the drive. Patsey's father neither called after him, nor did he follow; but he held his little daughter very close.

That night Patsey added an extra petition to her usual prayers. It was: "Please, dear God, let the kind Radical man what carried me, get what he wants for all the other little girls."

XV

A COUP D'ÉTAT

Roger stood at the nursery window apparently watching the driving rain, but in reality puzzling, with knit brows, over a situation he could by no means understand, although he was painfully conscious of its vague discomfort. When a small boy loves both his parents dearly, and it is gradually but most effectually brought home to him that he cannot show affection for the one without in some subtle fashion appearing to hurt the other, the said small boy finds himself in a cul de sac none the less final that its walls are by no means clearly defined. Older people than Roger realise that the only way out of a cul de sac is to go back the way you came; but he, having no idea how he had got there, could not do this; in fact, it was only that very morning that he awoke to the fact that he was there.

It was in this wise. His mother was changing the ornaments in the drawing-room—she had changed her drawing-room about once a week lately, lest it should get to look "set"—and she had moved the easel holding the big portrait of her uncle, the Dean, over to the corner by the piano. Roger assisted her, admiring her arrangement, as he admired everything about his mother, and she said,

"I hope you will grow up like your uncle Ambrose, sonnie!"

Roger was by no means sure that he echoed her wish. He had once visited the deanery and found the atmosphere somewhat oppressively dignified.

"Why, mother dear?" he asked.

"Because"—and a certain tone in her voice puzzled Roger—"he is a stainless gentleman."

"I think I'd rather be like father," he said meditatively; "that would do just as well. To be a dean you've got to be a parson first, and I'd much rather be a soldier, like father."

His mother turned her head hastily so that the child could not see her face.

"You can be like your uncle in character whatever your profession; it is there I would have you resemble him."

"But," interrupted Roger, "father's a stainless gentleman too, isn't he? And he's much more jollier than Uncle Ambrose."

His mother did not answer, and to the child such silence seemed charged with chilly omen. He did not ask her, as he longed to do, what she exactly meant by a stainless gentleman. He was sure that in some incomprehensible fashion the stainlessness of great-Uncle Ambrose reflected unfavourably upon his father and resented it accordingly. He was also sure that this enviable quality had nothing to do with personal cleanliness, for there was no one in the whole world so clean and smart as father. Why, when he drove to a distant meet, he wore "two pinafores," one in front and one behind, to keep his leathers spotlessly white; the said pinafores, by the way, doing much towards reconciling Roger to the wearing of his bib at meals.

The nursery window was open and the soft spring rain whispered pleasant things to the grass; but Roger did not listen. For the first time in his life he was weighing evidence; and the worst of it was, that, do as he would, the bulk of the evidence all went into one scale.

"They're just as fond of me," he thought to himself, "but somehow they're never with me together." There were no jolly drives into the town now—those drives in the high dog-cart when he would sit between them rapturously thinking that never had little boy such resplendent parents. Now, mother always went in the "bucket" with his little sisters, and when father took him out driving, mother did not even come and stand on the steps to wave them a farewell. She never sat on father's knee now, or called him a "ridiculous boy," or untied his necktie, or rumpled his hair. She seemed always to sit as far off as possible, and when she did look at her big, jolly husband, there was that in her expression which Roger felt he would rather not understand.

The truth was that Roger the elder and Lettice his wife, having been at one time rather demonstratively fond of one another, found it somewhat difficult to keep up appearances since such time as began the state of affairs their little son so deprecated. Lettice certainly flattered herself upon the secrecy and dignity with which she attended to the linen less well-bred people will sometimes insist upon hanging up to the public gaze even before it has gone through the cleansing process, and was quite unconscious that all the while her servants discussed the affair exhaustively, her friends pronounced the position untenable, and her little son grieved and wondered, casting about in his child mind for some way of clearing an atmosphere which even he felt was so charged with electricity as to be well-nigh intolerable.

The rain ceased whispering, but the trees took up the story and rustled importantly, shaking their glistening leaves at the sun who winked lazily in the west. The two little sisters called to Roger to come and have tea with the dolls; but he shook his head impatiently, thrusting it between the bars of the window that he might not hear them. A robin on the hawthorn hedge below regarded him in friendly fashion and sang a song of coming summer; but Roger saw nothing but a blurred little splash of crimson against the green, for his eyes were full of tears.

"Father, what's a stainless gentleman?" he asked as they went together in the evening to feed the big carp in the pond.

Roger the elder stopped in the middle of the path. He took his cigar out of his mouth and cleared his throat.

"Well, sonnie, I suppose it's a man who runs very straight, who never plays the fool, and does idiotic things, for the doing of which he has to pay Jew prices—a very good man, you know. But why? What d'you want to know for?"

"Well, mother said Uncle Ambrose is a 'stainless gentleman,' and she hoped I'd be like him when I'm grown up."

"For the matter of that, sonnie, so do I. You couldn't have a better model."

"I'd rather be like you, fardie, dear—much rather." And Roger took his father's hand in both his own, and squeezed it hard.

The elder Roger said nothing for a minute, but he grew very red. How was he to tell the faithful little soul at his side that his ideal was by no means a high one?

"You'll grow up very much the sort of man you want to be, sonnie. So mind and want to be the best sort going."

"Well, 't all events, I shan't be like Uncle Ambrose. He's too fond of sitting still."

"You'll be fond of sitting still when you're his age," said his father, with a sigh of relief.

They fed the carp, and Roger almost forgot his troubles, till, on returning to the house, they saw his mother on the tennis court with the little girls. She called to him to come and play cricket with his sisters.

"Will you come too, father?" he asked, pulling at his father's hand.

The elder Roger looked somewhat wistfully at the little group inside the netting on the tennis court. His little daughters kissed their fingers to him, calling to him to come; but his wife had turned her back upon him, and she had a most expressive back. He shook his head at the children, muttering something about letters to write, and turned to walk slowly towards the house.

"I'll bowl to you if you come, Roger; the grass is really quite dry again!" called his mother. Roger stood still in the drive, looking from one to the other of his parents both with their backs to him. Lettice looked over her shoulder and saw her husband's departing figure. "Come, my son!" she called, with a queer little catch in her sweet voice. "I've hardly seen you all day."

Roger went round the netting till he found an opening and pushed through. His mother came to meet him, and put her arm round his shoulders. He pointed to his father, who was walking slowly away with bent head.

"Don't you think fardie looks rather lonely?" he asked.

Lettice looked after her husband. "I don't think he is lonely, sonnie: he has so many—other friends." But the boy was not convinced.

Roger's mother bowls uncommonly well, but he did not enjoy the cricket. He kept contrasting it with that of last year. Then father always played too, and one day mother bowled him clean, and there was great shouting and excitement. "It was jollier cricket then!" he reflected sadly.

The elder Roger went and sat in the gun-room. He had to relight his cigar three times, and his reflections, although engrossing, did not seem pleasant.

"Will she never understand," he muttered, "that a man may care and yet play the giddy, and that he may play the giddy and not care a damn? What an almighty fool I've been!"

When the children had gone to bed Lettice went and sat in the newly arranged drawing-room.

"It's perfectly hideous!" she exclaimed; "I can't sit here!"

But she did sit there, staring at nothing for a good half-hour till the dressing-bell rang. In the evening she took up that very wise book, On the Face of the Waters, and read in what manner Kate Erleton had refused "her chance."

When little Roger woke next morning he remembered that something very pleasant was to happen that day. He was going with his father to the riding-school in the town to see a pony, and on that pony, if it proved suitable, he was to go hunting next winter. As the full significance of this tremendous occurrence was brought home to him in the shape of a pair of new and very stiff gaiters, he felt equal to negotiating the very biggest bullfinch; which may account for what happened half an hour later, as he stood in the hall waiting for the dog-cart.

The rain had come on again, heavy "Mayish rain," as Roger called it, but they didn't mind about that. His father was standing in the doorway looking very big in a wide white macintosh. His mother ran downstairs with her own macintosh cape for the little boy. As she reached the bottom step, the elder Roger came back into the hall. Perkins, who had been in "father's regiment" when father first joined, stood at the door with a rug over his arm, looking imperturbable as usual.

Lettice stooped to kiss her little son as she buttoned the cape at his neck. He caught at her hands as they fumbled with the stiff button, and said loudly,

"Kiss father too, mother dear, and wish us luck!"

Perkins turned his head quickly, looking back into the hall. Lettice felt the small insistent hands upon her own, and heard her husband's quick breathing just behind her. There flashed into her brain the thought that here and now was her "chance." She turned quickly and lifted up her small proud face towards her husband.

There was a flutter and flash of white macintosh in the dusky hall as Roger the elder caught his wife up in his arms and carried her into the dining-room. The door shut with a bang, and little Roger was left alone with Perkins, who blew his nose and waved the rug, exclaiming, in an excited whisper—-

"Bless your 'eart, sir, you've done it!"

Roger stood on the steps and waited; the smart little groom drove the dog-cart round and round the drive; ten minutes passed, and still father did not come.

"I'm rather afraid we shall miss the 'ppointment," said Roger, and made as if to go after his parents into the dining-room; but Perkins caught him by the shoulder and pulled him out on to the steps again, exclaiming fiercely,

"No, you don't, Master Roger—not for your life!"

Another five minutes, then the dining-room door opened: with a swish and swither of silk petticoats his mother flew upstairs two steps at a time.

"Buck up!" her husband shouted after her, and his voice sounded as though he'd got a dreadful cold; then, to Roger, "Mother is coming too, to see about the pony; and just look what a lovely day it's turned."

Roger thrust his hand into his father's, who held it very tight, but he didn't say anything at all.

There are the makings of a statesman in Roger.

XVI

THE STACEYS OF ELCOMBE HOUSE

After Harry went to school Paul and I had breakfast as well as lunch with father and mother, unless there happened to be a great many visitors. This was interesting because the letters came at breakfast and we heard the news.

It is curious how the most epoch-making intelligence is often given quite quietly with no flourish of trumpets, no preparation; just as the most momentous decisions are almost always made at once, without much reflection.

In the middle of May—I remember it was such a beautiful morning and tulips blazed in the herbaceous border opposite the window—mother looked up from her letters and said: "Measles is very bad in Fiammetta's school. Mr. Glyn has taken her away, and as soon as the quarantine is over he wants us to have her here for the rest of the summer, as he needs to go to America this month."

I couldn't speak. It was so tremendous.

Fiammetta here! for the rest of the summer! and summer had only just begun.

"Well," said father, "that seems to me a very sound suggestion—but what'll he do with Miss Sparling?"

She was the lady who kept house for him.

"She'll go off on a round of visits and they'll shut the house. We were to have the child in any case in the holidays, so it's only a month or two sooner. It will be nice for you, Janey, to have her"—and mother smiled at me.

Nice for me!

I mumbled something suitable: but I felt too strongly to do more than mumble. There was a singing in my ears and a lump in my throat ... but father understood, for he said: "It will be pleasant to have the little blue maid again: eh, Janey?" and I nodded at father and father nodded at me. Then he opened the newspaper and didn't look at me any more, and I was grateful.

"I wonder," said Paul, "how many more plays she's been to. We shall be able to act them all when she's told us."

A year ago she had come to us, this child, so utterly different from any other child we knew; come to us, and, for me, had changed and widened and vitalised the whole essential part of my being.

At first I wasn't even sure that I liked her. She was so different: but gradually I discovered that in this difference lay her mysterious elusive charm.

Little blue-gowned Fiammetta, always quaint, always picturesque, always and entirely unexpected. At first her somewhat superior and grown-up attitude irritated us extremely, but very soon we found that this was but a thin veneer acquired by much contact with grown-up people of a type we seldom saw. Beneath it was the child, a veritable child—whimsical, imaginative affectionate, ever-various—with a power of suggesting and carrying through new and fascinating forms of play that even Paul could not equal, Paul who had imagination enough to stock ten families.

But we regarded the vagaries of our younger brother with suspicion and some scorn. He was so young. What is eight compared to eleven? And Harry, now alas! exiled at a preparatory school, was twelve. Harry, my guide, philosopher and friend, reft from me for long periods of the year.

We had seen her once since last summer—just once, in the Christmas holidays, when Harry, Paul and I, in charge of Miss Goodlake, our governess, went for two long, crowded, glorious days to London. We stayed out at Hampstead, where Mr. Glyn had taken a house that Fiammetta might as a day-girl go to a nice school there.

But when you are seeing things all day long you can't seem to see people, and Fiammetta herself was swamped in a sea of other wonders and impressions.

Now she was really coming back and I should get some good of her.

And the very week she came back we had to go from Friday to Monday to stay with Uncle Edward and Aunt Alice over at Elcombe House.

I never wanted to go there, and desired it less than ever just then; but Aunt Alice is mother's sister and it had been arranged for weeks, and when mother suggested that I couldn't go because Fiammetta was coming, they invited her too with the utmost cordiality. So there was no getting out of it.

As it happened, it proved a more amusing visit than usual.

"What's the matter with them, Janey, that you groan so?" Fiammetta asked that Friday morning. "Don't you like your cousins?"

Put crudely like that, it sounded rather bad. I hedged.

"I like them well enough, but I hate going there, to stay. It's so stiff somehow, everything's always arranged for one—you'll see."

"I like Teddy," Lucy announced—plump, placid Lucy, who had come into our room in nurse's wake while she packed our things for Sunday. "I love Teddy," Lucy continued, "he and me's both five."

"If," nurse remarked severely, "you was a bit more like your cousins, Miss Janey, it would be better for all parties. Very nicely brought-up young ladies they are, and full of accomplishments."

That was it. They were so full of accomplishments. Hermy (her name was Hermione), only a year my senior, was already learning to paint in oils and studied Italian. Viola, eighteen months younger, could play quite difficult music and danced by herself at tea-parties, clad in classic draperies. Teddy—it was father who called him Teddy, and the name stuck, though Uncle Edward disliked it extremely—was the best of them: moon-faced, good-natured and absolutely simple, a well-meaning, quite ordinary little boy with no airs or graces. Teddy, so Harry said, was "awfully decent."

"You haven't explained," Fiammetta insisted. "What's your uncle like?"

"It's no use," I exclaimed, "I can't explain—you wait. Perhaps," I added hopefully, "you'll like him."

When Uncle Edward bought Elcombe House, only eight miles off, we children rejoiced: for now, we thought, there could be no possible reason for the "Eeny-Peenies," as we called the girls, coming to stay with us. But we had reckoned without the hospitality of the Staceys. We were everlastingly being invited to stay with them, and of two evils this was by far the greater. They were always—Uncle Edward, the two governesses, Hermy and Vi—trying to improve us, especially me.

Paul didn't fit as to age, and his temperament was, apparently, even less adaptable than mine. Whenever Paul went, there was trouble. Lucy and Teddy were the best of friends, but nurse and the Staceys' nurse couldn't hit it off at all. Harry was safe at school, therefore the lot generally fell upon me to go ... and I hated it.

This time I felt it would not be so bad because Fiammetta was there, and Fiammetta was capable of holding her own with dozens of Staceys.

In the first place, she was a well-known poet's only child. They would respect her for that. In the second place, people who tried to patronise Fiammetta were riding for a fall. That I had seen proved, over and over again. Paul was like that too, but then Paul was only one of us, and they looked down on us. Uncle Edward looked down on father. I knew it, I felt it. I resented it intensely.

Uncle Edward had a way of condemning amusements that he didn't care about by calling them "rather horrid" in a high thin voice that was far more condemnatory than the loudest fulminations of ordinary folk. Both hunting and shooting fell under this ban, and father liked both. As for fishing, Uncle Edward considered it the last resource of the mentally effete. Agricultural pursuit; he dismissed as "rather bucolic," and father farmed his own land and was extremely keen about everything that concerned it. Whist and Bridge—Bridge had just begun to be popular—he described as "dreadful games"; in fact, he "loathed all cards" except Patience. He was an expert in Patience, knowing quite forty different kinds; but he didn't care for it unless at least three people watched him do it—which was dull for the selected three.

He was a slim, small man, whom no mortal ever saw without his pince-nez—I believe he slept in them—with a pale, regularly-featured face, clean-shaven and legal-looking. He was delicate, took immense care of himself, and cultivated a large and healthy crop of dislikes. His sense of smell was painfully acute, and many quite ordinary odours, that do not offend less sensitively constituted mortals, were, to him, quite unbearable. Tobacco he could not endure. When father went to Elcombe House he had to creep away to the furthest point of the most distant garden to enjoy the smoke he could in no wise forgo. And when he returned, Uncle Edward always sniffed delicately and looked pained.

A cut melon caused Uncle Edward to feel unwell, and I do believe if any one had eaten an apple in front of him he would have fainted outright.

We arrived just before tea. Hermy and Vi met us in the hall and walked upstairs one on either side of Fiammetta, leaving me to follow by myself. They showed us our rooms—we had one each—and they left me in mine while they both accompanied Fiammetta to hers.

After tea, presided over by Mademoiselle and Fräulein, Teddy suddenly demanded, "What have you done with the poet?"

"What poet?" asked Fiammetta, for Teddy's remark was evidently addressed to her, his round eyes never left her face.

"The poet you belongs to. Where have you put him?"

"I don't," Fiammetta said rather huffily, "put my father anywhere—do you?"

"He's not a poet," Teddy said, quite unmoved by her disapproval. "He's only an or'nary father."

"Indeed he's not," cried Viola; "he's very ex*traordinary—*most gifted," she added complacently.

Teddy continued to stare at Fiammetta.

"You haven't told me," he continued.

"Told you what?"

"—where he is."

"He's in London, if you mean my daddie."

"Must he stay there?"

"Of course not, if he doesn't want to."

"Then why doesn't he come here with you?"

"Because he's in London, I tell you."

"Doesn't he want to come here?"

"I suppose not," said Fiammetta, whose patience was nearly exhausted. "Do you always ask so many questions?"

"I always ask," Teddy replied candidly, "but people never tells me all I want to know. Sometimes they don't even answer."

"I should think not," cried Viola. "A little boy like you! Run away and play with your horse and cart. Fiammetta has come to see us, not you."

"Have you?" the downright Teddy asked wistfully.

"I've come to see all of you," Fiammetta said graciously, "though I'm really staying with Janey, you know."

"Perhaps you'll come and stay with us too, mother said; without Janey, for a bit," Hermy suggested.

Fiammetta stared.

"Without Janey?" she repeated. "Why?"

Hermy looked rather uncomfortable.

"Well, in case Janey didn't care to come, you know," and Hermy put her arm round Fiammetta.

Fiammetta drew herself away: "I shouldn't like it at all without Janey, thank you," she said stiffly; "she's my greatest friend."

Hermy and Viola looked at each other and then at me, as though they were considering me in a new light. Teddy, who had not done his sister's bidding and was still hanging on the outskirts of our little group, said suddenly, "I'll come and stay with both of you whenever you ask me, wivout Nana," and he thrust a sticky little hand into mine. My heart went out to him, and I gave the hot small hand a squeeze. Teddy and I were of the inarticulate, but we understood one another.

Viola turned ostentatiously to Fiammetta. "Would you," she asked sweetly, "like to see me dance? Fräulein will play for me, and we have half an hour before we go down to father in the drawing-room."

"No, thank you," Fiammetta replied with the utmost decision: "I see plenty of girls dancing at school, and I can dance myself—perhaps you'd like to see me dance?"

"I think," Viola said hastily, "that we'd better neither of us dance just now, lest we get too hot. Shall we go out into the garden till reading time?"

This we did.

On the stroke of six a bell was rung from the front door and we all four went to the drawing-room, where Aunt Alice and Uncle Edward awaited us. It was his custom to read to his family every evening at this hour, unless there happened to be a garden-party. Whatever anybody was doing, they were haled to the drawing-room to hear Uncle Edward read aloud.

"Edward reads so beautifully," Aunt Alice always said, and I dare say he did. But no one always wants to listen to the most perfect reading, and this evening I noted with some consternation that Fiammetta was bored, and showed it.

She fidgeted, she yawned, she drummed with her fingers on the edge of her chair. Once she shuffled her feet, and Uncle Edward actually stopped and looked severely at me. I know he gave me the credit for all the small disturbances that occurred that evening, whereas I was still as a mouse, and far too interested in Fiammetta's frank manifestations of ennui to have indulged in any myself.

At that time he was going through a course of Jane Austen, for whose works he had an enthusiastic admiration, and I remember thinking that he was rather like a Jane Austen person himself, and that she would have "done him" uncommonly well. The book he read was Pride and Prejudice, most witty and delightful to read in later life. But children miss the real savour of its caustic wit, and I know that it was as much over Fiammetta's head as over mine, even though she was so infinitely better versed in literature of all kinds than I. At seven Uncle Edward ceased, placing a marker in the page as he closed the book.

"Perhaps," he said, "Fiammetta already knows this book by heart and can tell me what comes next."

Fiammetta arose hastily from her chair with evident relief: "Oh, no," she said frankly, "that's not the sort of book one knows by heart. I don't think it's particularly interesting—do you?"

"I think it is a masterpiece," Uncle Edward replied, almost breathless with astonishment. "I hope that in a year or two Viola and Hermione will know it, and many others by the incomparable Jane, as well as they know their multiplication table."

"Do they know that awfully well?" asked Fiammetta. "I don't; the sevens and the nines are so muddling—my daddie quite agrees with me. May we go away now?"

In all my intercourse with Fiammetta, the thing that never failed of its joy and wonder was the way she nonplussed grown-up people. They seemed to have no suitable snub ready for her. She was not in the least impertinent, but neither was she deferential to their superior intelligence. In fact, she made us question sometimes whether they were so very intelligent. She lived on terms of such absolute equality with her father, such understanding affection existed between them, that it never occurred to Fiammetta to conceal her opinions or to pretend she liked things merely to please people who happened to be several years older than herself. She was quite prepared to show Uncle Edward good reasons for her lack of interest in Pride and Prejudice as frankly as she afterwards gave them to me. But she had no opportunity, for I remember Aunt Alice hustled us out into the garden with almost unseemly haste, and we were set to play golf croquet, in which game Viola and Hermione excelled, I was only moderately good, and Fiammetta couldn't play at all. Naturally she did not enjoy herself much.

By lunch time on Saturday she was, as she herself put it, "thoroughly issasperated" with things in general. Never for one moment were we left alone. Something was arranged for every minute. The Staceys believed in organised games; "innocent pastimes varied by intellectual pursuits" was Uncle Edward's curriculum, and it would have been excellent had there been rather less of the innocent pastimes. Until quite recently the Staceys had lived in towns, and they had yet to learn that in the country children can find their own amusements with the greatest ease: that Dame Nature is an excellent M.C., and that the queer plays children invent for themselves are far more entrancing than any game that is played by rule.

Fiammetta looked quite pale and exhausted after a morning spent in rounders, clumps, golf croquet (she rested and watched us during this, as she firmly refused to play, but Fräulein sat with her lest she should be dull), spelling-game, Puss-in-the-corner, and "Earth, air, fire, and water."

Observe the judicious admixture of active exercise and mental gymnastics.

While I was washing my hands for lunch she came into my room, shut my door—I'm afraid she banged it—locked it, and stood with her back against it.

"Janey, I want to go home," she announced. "I want to go back to the Court this afternoon. Will you ask them to drive us?"

"I can't," I exclaimed, aghast. "It would never do; we've been asked till Monday, and we must stay here till then."

"Why should I stay if I hate it?"

"Because it's all arranged; they'd never forgive us if we went home; it would be so rude."

She began to cry. "I'm so tired," she sobbed, "sick and tired of silly games that one can make so many mistakes in, and they keep showing you all the time. Janey, I can't go on with it."

I was horror-struck. The luncheon gong would ring in two minutes, and if Fiammetta was tear-stained there would be inquiries.

I flew to her with the towel in my wet hands, and put my arms round her. "Don't cry!" I besought her, "if you do, they'll think I've been pinching you, or something," and she began to laugh. She dried her eyes on the towel and then said irrelevantly, "Paul didn't come. Why isn't he here, too, to help bear it?"

"He wasn't asked," I said. "He doesn't do here at all."

"I don't do either," she protested; "it's a shame. When I think of Paul wandering about in that dear garden, doing exactly what he likes, I could scream."

"For mercy's sake don't," I said. "They'd want to know why, and then what could you say?"

"Janey, after we've gone to bed and everything's quiet, may I come in and sleep with you? I wouldn't be so miserable then."

"It's a very little bed," I said dubiously, "and you're an awful fidget. I hear you in our room at home. You go round and round like a dog."

"I'll bring my bedclothes and sleep on the floor, and go back very early in the morning, then they'll never know."

To pacify her, I consented to this, well knowing which of us would sleep on the floor. In the afternoon they took us out in the motor, and this we enjoyed, for motors were then something of a novelty, and Uncle Edward did not come.

Tea passed off quite peacefully. After tea Viola again proposed to dance for us, and again Fiammetta politely but firmly gainsayed the suggestion unless she, too, might perform, which was not in the least what Viola wanted.

As the fateful hour of six approached I trembled, especially as Fiammetta left us without any explanation (we were gathered on the lawn in front of the drawing-room windows) and calmly walked into the house. I watched the slim blue figure vanish; presently she returned, carrying one of the Jungle books.

"What's the use of getting that just as we're going in to papa?" asked Hermy.

"It's because I've got to go in to Mr. Stacey that I've fetched it. I don't care for that book about Mr. d'Arcy, so I'll read this."

Hermy and Viola gasped, I quaked, Aunt Alice looked rather frightened; Fräulein and Mademoiselle regarded Fiammetta with silent admiration.

"I don't think papa would like you to do that, my dear," Aunt Alice said gently. "You see, if he is kind enough to read to us, the least we can do is to listen carefully."

"Why, if we don't want to?" Fiammetta persisted. "If I mayn't read in there, may I stay out here and read?"

"Papa likes us all to be present when he's so good as to read to us," Aunt Alice said more firmly. "It would never do for one of our guests to miss his reading. Give me that book, dear!"

Aunt Alice held out her hand for the book. Fiammetta put it behind her back: "Mrs. Stacey," she said earnestly, "I don't understand. Is it like church? Nurse says we go to church here because it's pleasing to the Almighty—we never go in London, daddie and I. Do we have to listen to Mr. Stacey because it's pleasing to the Almighty, or what?"

Aunt Alice lost her temper. "You must do as you are told," she said shortly. "Give me that book. I see papa at the window; he is ready for us."

With a sigh Fiammetta handed over the Jungle Book and we all filed into the drawing-room.

Uncle Edward sat in his usual chair, carefully placed so that the light fell at exactly the right angle upon his book. We all settled ourselves to listen respectfully, except Fiammetta, who, just as he was about to begin, stood up and said, "Mr. Stacey, do you mind if I go into the garden instead of listening?"

Uncle Edward gazed at Fiammetta in the utmost astonishment: "Don't you want to hear the reading?" he asked.

"Not a bit," Fiammetta said firmly. "I know you do it for kindness and all that, but it does bore me so. I asked Mrs. Stacey, but she seemed to think you'd mind ... you don't, do you?" and she smiled in friendliest fashion at Uncle Edward.

"It is, of course," he said slowly, "a matter of pure indifference to me whether you are present or not."

"Thank you so much," Fiammetta said sweetly. "You don't mind now, do you, dear Mrs. Stacey? And may I have the Jungle Book to take with me?"

She took the book from Aunt Alice's unresisting hands as she passed. She skipped out of the window and across the lawn. She arranged herself in a garden chair with a leg-rest, all in full view of the windows ... and Uncle Edward began to read.

He read for an hour and a half.

Even Aunt Alice looked three times at the clock during the last half-hour.

When at length he did finish, and Hermy and Viola and I were about to flee into the garden to hunt for Fiammetta, who had long ago tired of the Jungle Book and wandered away, he stayed us with a motion of his hand.

"I hope," he said gravely, "that you will let this evening's incident be a lesson to you, an object-lesson as to how a guest should not behave."

Hermy and Viola looked duly disgusted at Fiammetta's conduct; I, as usual when confronted with Uncle Edward, looked foolish. None of the three of us made any remark. "Remember," he said, "that the perfect guest invariably falls in with every custom of his host. He becomes a part of the household. You understand?"

"Yes, papa," said Hermy and Viola in dutiful chorus; "we will always try to."

"And you, Janey, will you lay this lesson to heart?"

"Yes, Uncle Edward," I, too, said meekly; and then, feeling rather mean, I added, "but father says we ought to ask our guests if they like things."

"Certainly," he replied coldly, "in reason; but you cannot disorganise the entire working of a household to please a guest. Especially," he added, with evident annoyance, "when that guest happens to be a spoilt, conceited child."

"I don't think Fiammetta is conceited," I pleaded, "but she's used to saying right out when she hates things——"

"That will do, Janey," Aunt Alice interposed hastily. "Run away, children, and find Fiammetta."

As we ran, I reflected that Uncle Edward certainly did not himself fulfil his definition of the perfect guest. When he stayed with us, poor father couldn't smoke a single pipe in the house, and all fruits that had any sort of a smell were banished from the menu.

We found Fiammetta at last in the garage, conversing with the chauffeur.

"He's really a much more interesting man than Mr. Stacey," she confided to me that night when she came to sleep in my bed the floor was hard and rather cold—"he told me about all the accidents he's ever been in."

XVII

A SOLDIER'S BUTTON

His family could not understand why Teddy had such a passion for soldiers. Certainly his family neither inspired nor shared it.

Papa declared them to be "elementary persons of a low standard of intelligence."

Mummy was mildly negative in her views. She did not, like papa, express actual disapproval of them as a class; they may even have had a dimly-felt attraction for her—she was very like Teddy in some ways—but she was a devoted wife, and it would never have occurred to her to champion any cause or individual disapproved of by papa.

Teddy's sisters, both considerably older than he—for he was only four—were facile echoes of their parents. And, after all, there was no earthly reason why any of the family should take any particular interest in soldiers. They had seen very few. When they did happen to come across a body of men in uniform marching to the strains of a military band, they doubtless thrilled for a moment like everybody else; then the soldiers and all they stood for vanished from their minds as from their sight.

But it was otherwise with Teddy. He thought about soldiers, dreamed of soldiers, talked about soldiers, and asked incessant questions about soldiers all day long and with any one he could get to answer him. And this was the more surprising inasmuch as he was not naturally a talkative child, being of a somewhat taciturn and ruminative disposition. It annoyed papa, for, quiet and biddable as Teddy was in every other respect, his enthusiasm for the soldier subject was such that no amount of snubbing could keep him off it.

And it started this way. One year, on their way to the Highlands, they stayed in Edinburgh for the month of July. A friend of papa's lent them his flat. The flat was in Ramsay Gardens, and Teddy's nursery window looked over the Castle Esplanade. The Black Watch was stationed at the Castle just then, and from his window Teddy beheld them drilling. He was always seeing them when he went out, and whensoever he did see them, singly or in companies, he was thrilled to the centre of his little soul. It is believed that his nurse shared his enthusiasm, but this was not known till long afterwards. But this much is certain, that when she and Teddy went out to take the air, whether he trotted by her side, or was seated proudly in his mail-cart, they seldom went in any direction that did not either lead to, or circulate round about, the evolutions of the Black Watch. Moreover, that regiment never marched in any direction whatsoever that Teddy and his nurse were not among the most palpitating of interested spectators.

Teddy's nurse was distinctly pleasing to the eye. Plump, fresh-coloured and very neat in her becoming uniform, she was of that superior order of nurses who are trained in institutions guaranteed to turn out guardians of the young not only medically competent to deal with every known form of infantile disease, but so deeply versed in psychology as to be able to draw out all that is best, and suppress anything that is evil, in a child's character.

Mummy had selected her with extreme care, and Teddy was almost entirely in her charge. Mummy went out a good deal, for both she and papa had many friends in Edinburgh whom they had not seen for a very long time. His sisters were under the dominion of a Fräulein, so he and his nurse were left almost entirely to their own devices.

It was a beautiful July, and they were hardly ever kept indoors by bad weather. Teddy's cheeks grew round and rosy, his eyes bright and interested, so that his parents declared the keen bracing air was doing him all the good in the world. Up to that time he had been rather a pale, phlegmatic child.

To get from Princes Street to Ramsay Gardens one has to mount an exceedingly steep hill, pretty stiff walking for a pedestrian, and real hard work when you've got to push a mail-cart with a solid small boy in it. Yet very often his nurse would take Teddy to Princes Street Gardens in the afternoon, and generally on such occasions the band of the Black Watch discoursed sweet music from the band-stand.

On the return journey there always appeared some kindly kilted figure anxious to "gie the bairn a hurl" up the steepest part of the hill. Nurse was always very staid and dignified on such occasions. She accepted assistance, it is true, but with reservations. Moreover, she even tried to check Teddy's efforts in the way of conversation with his escort by time-worn aphorisms to the effect that little boys should be seen and not heard. But here she failed signally.

"When I'm a man," said Teddy, during one of these delicious "hurrls," "I hope I sail be a gate big soldier like you."

"You mean, my dear, that you hope you'll be an officer," nurse remarked loftily.

"A bave British officer," Teddy repeated obediently.

"That's the ticket," he of the kilt agreed cordially, quite unconscious of the implied snub. "I'd like fine to serve under ye mysel'."

"I expect you'll be an officer too by then," Teddy suggested.

The big soldier chuckled. "I'm no for onnything o' that sort," he said, shaking his head. "I'm for the Resairve—when I marry," he added, with a side glance at Teddy's pretty nurse.

"That will do, Mr. Macdonald," she said, laying a neatly-gloved hand on the handle of the mail-cart. "I can manage myself now; we are past the steepest part."

The soldier obediently relinquished the mail-cart. He saluted Teddy, and Teddy saluted him with great solemnity. Then, with quite equal solemnity he winked, and swung away down the hill again.

Papa's friend had lent his servants as well as his flat, and among them was a highland housemaid, called Campbell by the authorities but known among her fellows as Girzie. And so Teddy knew her. Of course, nurse was far too grand a person to consort with the other servants on familiar terms. She might, on occasion, when nobody else was present, unbend a little towards a sergeant-major in his splendid uniform, but she rigorously enforced the distance her "training" put between her and the servants, and they not even of her employer's household. All the same, nurse made no objection when Girzie offered to look after Teddy on such occasions as she wanted an afternoon off in the society of that same sergeant-major. And Girzie, who adored Teddy, was most accommodating.

Now Girzie had a brother in the Black Watch. It is true he was "only just a soldier," as Teddy put it, to distinguish him from the more highly-placed acquaintance of nurse, but he looked upon it as a distinct advantage, for under Girzie's guardianship he was allowed to converse freely with the short, thick-set man, who was so agreeably ready to answer questions.

From him Teddy learnt the true significance of dirks and sporrans and philabegs and plaids and badges, and many other things. The letter R was still a difficulty with Teddy, and he felt rather out of it among people who seemed to take a positive delight in giving that letter an almost undue prominence. Yet, though Girzie's brother did exclaim rather often, "eh! what's that you're sayin'?" they got on famously on the whole; and though it may not be wholly flattering to be addressed as "the wee stoot yen," yet Teddy overlooked the familiarity because of the affection in its tone.

He was something of an Elizabethan in his simplicity and jovial sense of fellowship with his kind. And the truth is that the atmosphere of Teddy's home was somewhat rarefied.

Papa was a Superior Person, quite excellent and kind in all his domestic relations, but in many respects what more ordinary mortals called a crank.

He had views, strong views, and he was apt to enforce them: not only upon his family, whom, of course, in consequence of these very views, he felt bound to influence, but also upon outsiders, who, if of a hasty disposition, were apt to wish papa at Jericho, or even in some still warmer place. He was also a person of many and vigorous antipathies, which he seemed to think entitled him to special consideration. Therefore did Teddy feel that the simple and jovial persons he encountered in Edinburgh filled a hitherto unsatisfied want in his nature, and he loved them dearly.

And they loved him; for the "wee stoot yen" was irresistibly frank and friendly and few of us are impervious to the flattery of such respectful admiration as Teddy's round face and blue eyes plainly manifested whenever he came across any of his friends in the Black Watch.

One day when he was out with Girzie she took him to the Arcade in Princes Street, and there bought him a doll dressed as a Highlander. Teddy was charmed with the present, though he could have wished that the china face under the fierce busby had been a thought less chubby and simpering, and what really did worry him was a feeling that there was something not quite right about the uniform. He didn't know what it was, and he was too well-bred and grateful to Girzie for her kind present to find any fault; but when on the way up the hill they met her brother, he at once pointed out several discrepancies, which he commanded Girzie to alter, explaining how it should be done. Girzie carried out his instructions that night, and next day they christened the doll "Colin Dougal," after the said brother, and it became Teddy's most precious possession.

Colin Dougal slept with him, ousting from that proud post a fluffy bird attached to an elastic that had hitherto possessed the privilege. Colin Dougal accompanied him in his mail-cart, and sat beside him at nursery meals; and to Colin Dougal Teddy used to sing, over and over again, the refrain of an old song he had learned from Girzie:—

"My love, she's in Dumbarton,

Whaur they weir the tartan,

Whaur they weir the tartan—

Faur abin the knee!"

It seemed quite fitting that anybody's love should dwell in a part of the country where they wore that entrancing costume, and Teddy felt certain that Dumbarton must be a specially delightful place, and was quite drawn to the lady. But always after singing it he was assailed by doubts as to whether Colin Dougal's tartan was quite short enough. Girzie had shortened it, but the exigencies of his china legs precluded the strict brevity of a kilt as worn by the Black Watch. Still, the tartan was the right tartan, and that was something.

The pleasant July days, so long and light, slipped speedily away, till an afternoon came when Teddy, returning from a walk with Girzie, found the nursery full of boxes, and nurse, who demanded the immediate surrender of Colin Dougal that she might pack him.

The little boy clasped his doll more firmly in his arms, looked round the dismantled nursery, and grim foreboding laid a chilly hand upon his heart.

"What do you want to pack for?" he asked breathlessly.

"Because we're going by an early train to-morrow, and mummy says everything must be ready to-night."

"Going!" he gasped. "Going where?"

"We're all going to Kingussie for August."

"I'm not going, I don't want to go. I want to stay here, wiv all my fends.... Do you," he asked anxiously, "want to go to Kingussie?"

Nurse looked flushed and rather cross.

"I'm not asked," she muttered, "what I want, nor you neither, Teddy. Give me that doll at once, and I'll pack him with the other toys."

Teddy stared stonily at her, nor made the smallest effort to surrender his doll.

"I'm not going," he said firmly, "not to-morrow. Why, I haven't said good-bye to none of them, have you?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," said nurse huffily; "give me that doll at once, you know I don't allow disobedience."

And as she spoke she made a grab at the doll.

Teddy held on with all his strength. They were starting for Kingussie a day earlier than had been originally intended, and it had only been decided upon that morning. Mummy had taken it upon herself to send Girzie out with Teddy, leaving nurse free to pack. This had upset all nurse's plans, and left Sergeant-Major Macdonald kicking his heels during a vain wait at the bottom of the hill, while Girzie and Teddy went off in quite another direction. Therefore nurse was decidedly irritable, and rather roughly tried to pull Colin Dougal out of Teddy's arms.

For a full minute Teddy held on with all his little strength, then suddenly and despairingly let go. And at the same instant nurse also let go, remembering that it was undignified to struggle with a small child for the possession of a china doll.

Colin Dougal fell with a thump upon the floor, one of his china legs broke right in two, and the severed half leapt gaily under a chair.

Teddy took a deep breath and yelled and yelled and yelled.

Papa and mummy heard him in the drawing-room, and rushed to the nursery to see what had happened.

He was standing stock still just inside the door. Nurse had picked up Colin Dougal and the bit of his leg, and was vainly trying to explain to her demented charge that it could easily be mended.

But Teddy struck at her with both his hands, and refused to be comforted. He also continued to bawl with unabated vigour after his parents had entered the room.

"What's this? What's this?" exclaimed papa.

"Are you hurt, my precious?" mummy inquired tenderly, as she knelt beside her little boy.

Teddy did not repulse his mother, and managed to ejaculate in the middle of a roar, "I don't want to go to Kingussie!"

The accident to Colin Dougal seemed a minor woe, caused by, and included in, this devastating news of departure.

"Nonsense!" papa exclaimed, looking pained; "not want to go to Kingussie! Why, it's country—real, beautiful, quiet country—far better than this place, with those infernal bugles braying from morning till night, and the horrid band, and air those tramping soldiers. You'll love Kingussie."

Teddy stopped afresh in the midst of renewed efforts in the way of yells to hiccough indignantly "not—'fernal bugles!"

Papa looked rather surprised, but his pained look returned as Teddy started to shout again at the top of his voice.

Nurse, taking advantage of the general confusion, packed Colin Dougal, and actually wrapped up the piece of his leg in a separate bit of paper with cold-blooded detachment.

Mummy reasoned, papa reasoned, and nurse, who had by this time recovered her Institutional serenity, spoke soothingly: but all to no avail. Teddy continued to scream, to lose his breath, and then roar with renewed vigour when he had got it again.

He really made a great to-do.

Finally papa and mummy departed in despair. Nurse went on packing, and Girzie, who had been listening at the end of the passage with her hand against her heart, came in and took the tired, miserable little figure into her kind strong arms and sat down on a chair.

"Eh, Master Teddy, and what'll the soldiers be thinkin' this night, to hear such an awfu' stramash in this respectable house ... an' both the windows open? They'll be fair affrontet to think the young gentleman they thought such a heap on could cry like a randy wife. They puir soldiers won't know what to make of it at all, at all."

And Girzie shook her head as though overcome with care.

Teddy sat up and stared at her, and though his breath still came in sobs he made no noise.

"Will they mind, Girzie?" he asked anxiously. "Will they 'eally mind?"

"Mind!" Girzie repeated. "Mind! They'll just be that upset—and you almost like one o' them."

"Colin Dougal's broken his leg."

"Well, he'll get over that. My brother broke his leg at the football, and look at him now!"

"But we're going away, Girzie, ... and I haven't said good-bye to nobody, not to your Colin Dougal nor no one."

"Never fear but he'll see ye to say good-bye—but not if you cry—an' you going to be a grand officer gentleman some day. Soldiers don't cry, laddie. It would be the very last thing they'd think of doing."

"Not if they're hurted in their hearts?—nor never?"

"Not that any other person could see or hear them, you may depend on that. And you mustn't cry either, any way not so loud that folk could hear ye right across the Esplanade. Listen, laddie, we'll no forget you. My brother's just fair taken up wi' you, and he's sent you this—for a bit keepsake. It's one o' his buttons made into a safety-pin, and when you're a wee thing bigger you'll wear it to hold down your tie ... if nurse'll let you," she added hastily, with an anxious glance at nurse, who continued to pack in absorbed silence.

Eagerly Teddy untied the little packet, and there was a real soldier's button mounted as a safety-pin.

"When can I have a tie?" he asked eagerly.

Nurse came over to them and stood looking down at the little pin. Her face softened. "I've got one rather like that, myself," she said. "You can fasten it in your blouse whether you have a tie or not. No one would notice."

"Can I wear it always?" he asked.

"Yes, if you like," nurse said graciously, "and perhaps it will help you to remember not to cry when you fall down."

Girzie said nothing, but she fastened the brooch so that the button shone resplendent just above the ribbons that tied Teddy's sailor blouse.

"I will remember," he said solemnly.

"Are you sorry you were so naughty?" nurse asked, ever desirous to improve the occasion.

"No," said Teddy firmly. "I hate Kingussie."

But after all he didn't hate Kingussie. He would have liked it immensely but that it rained nearly all the time. July seemed to have used up all the nice weather, and August was very cold and wet. He got one chill on the top of another, and sneezed and snuffled, and snuffled and sneezed, and lost all the pretty pink colour in his cheeks that he had gained in Edinburgh.

Kingussie is a beautiful place with woods and streams and a glorious golf links covered with short springy turf. Their lodgings were right on the top of a hill, and the view from the windows was very lovely, but even the loveliest view palls when it can only be seen through a veil of driving rain.

Towards the end of their stay Teddy alarmed his family by falling really ill. The local doctor took a gloomy view of his case, and talked of unripe blackberries and appendicitis. Papa thereupon carried the whole family back to Edinburgh before the end of the month. This time they stayed at the Caledonian Hotel, where the noise of Princes Street and the constant trains tried papa even more than the infernal bugles in Ramsay Gardens.

A great doctor, who had not yet started for his holiday, was consulted about Teddy, and he was even graver than the doctor up in Kingussie, and said there must be an operation at once.

That was a puzzling day for Teddy.

He was kept in bed till evening, and nurse and everybody were extraordinarily kind to him.

Then mummy came and sat beside him and held his hand, and told him that he was to go that night to another house, and that the next day the great doctor would do something for him that would make him quite well.

"Why can't he do it here?" Teddy asked.

It seemed that people didn't have these things done in hotels; that doctors were particular men who liked to make people well in specially chosen houses called Nursing Homes, and that Teddy was to go to one of those homes that very night in a taxi-cab.

"Will my nurse come?" he asked anxiously.

"I will come," said mummy, and her voice sounded as if she, too, had got one of the Kingussie colds.

"Not nurse," he repeated, rather puzzled. "Who will dress me?"

"There are lots of nice nurses in the Home who can do that, but you won't be dressed just at first, you know. The doctor will want to keep you in bed a little while after the operation."

"What's a operation? What's it do to you?"

But this mummy did not seem able to explain very clearly, and Teddy began to feel rather doubtful about the whole thing.

"Will it hurt?" he asked at last.

"Not at the time, my precious," said mummy, "but afterwards it may. I'm afraid it will, rather. I'm afraid it may hurt a good deal. But you will try to be brave. I know you will be brave."

"A bave—Bittish—officer——" Teddy muttered. Then, turning his big, bright eyes upon his mother, he asked eagerly: "Can I wear my button?"