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Meg had presented the pot of jelly to her uncles, been complimented on its colour and clearness. Now she sat down by the open fire and prepared to tell her news. But first she remarked:

“It seems so strange not to see three or four dogs stretched on the hearth, as there used to be.”

“Yes,” Ernest agreed, “it does. But since old Merlin died, Alayne has been able to keep them more or less under control. The bulldog has taken up with Wright and spends most of his time in the stables. The sheep-dog has a fancy for the kitchen. It’s a good thing too because the amount of mud he carries in on his long coat is extraordinary. He was actually ruining the rugs. I think Alayne is quite right to encourage them to keep out.”

“I miss them,” growled Nicholas.

“So do I, Uncle Nick. And so I’m sure will Renny when he comes home, if he ever does come home, poor darling. I sometimes doubt it.”

Nicholas shifted in his chair. “He’ll come home all right,” he muttered.

Meg drew a deep breath and plunged into her disclosures.

“He will find other changes too. For one thing, he will not find me at Vaughanlands.”

Her uncles stared at her speechless.

“I have sold it,” she said dramatically. “Lock, stock, and barrel. To a Mr. Clapperton.”

The two men repeated as one voice—“Sold it!”

“Yes. Sold it. Now don’t say I have done this without consulting you, because I have been talking of selling ever since poor Maurice died. You all have known that it’s impossible for me to run the place alone. Every month it’s got harder. Every month I’ve had a greater loss. Three days ago an agent brought this Mr. Clapperton to see me. He is a widower, a retired business man. His wife hated the country but he loves it. He longs to settle down and live a quiet country life, breed prize stock. That sort of man, you know. He just wants something he’s never had. He has plenty of money. He’ll pay cash. Now shouldn’t I be foolish to stay on in that big house? Some day Patience will marry. I shall be left alone.” A pathetic quaver came into her voice.

“But where will you go?” asked Ernest.

“It seems providential.” She smiled, though tears were in her eyes. “The old Pink house is for sale. The house where that awful Mrs. Stroud lived, after the last war. They’re asking a ridiculous price for it, but nothing is cheap nowadays. It’s a good time to sell.”

“What are you getting for Vaughanlands?” asked Nicholas.

She hesitated. She hated to tell. Not that her family would resent her getting a good price. They would rejoice. But—she hated to tell. However, she said quietly:

“Fifty-five thousand dollars.”

“Whew!” exclaimed Nicholas. “Quite an advance since pioneer days when the first Vaughan bought it.”

“Think of all that has been spent on the estate! Think of the amount of land!”

“I know. I know. Well, I shall try to be glad for your sake, Meggie. But it will seem queer to have a stranger at Vaughanlands.”

“But he is so nice, Uncle Nick. All he wants is peace and quiet and books and a garden and prize stock. It’s quite touching to hear him talk.”

“How old is he?” asked Ernest.

“Between fifty and sixty. Very well dressed. Very carefully dressed. Quite immaculately turned out.”

“Humph,” growled Nicholas.

“Meggie,” said Ernest, “I am hurt that you should have done this without consulting us.”

“Uncle Ernest, I dared not wait to consult you. Mr. Clapperton had another place in mind. He was wavering between the two. I might have lost him.”

“Well, I hope he’ll be a nice neighbour.”

“He will. Never doubt that. I should say that he’s the very personification of a nice neighbour.”

At this moment Alayne came into the room. She had been aware that Meg was with her uncles and had given them time for conversation before entering. Now she was told of the sale of Vaughanlands and the proposed purchase of the small house. She congratulated Meg. She thought Meg had done well for herself and for Patience. They talked more congenially than was their custom.

“It will be a great relief to you,” Alayne said. “I know what a burden these large places can be.” She gave a sigh and clasped her hands tensely in her lap.

The three Whiteoaks bent looks on her that made her feel an outsider in spite of her twenty years’ residence among them.

“Do you consider Jalna a burden?” Ernest asked, in a hurt tone.

“We have been at our wit’s end to keep things going since the war, haven’t we?”

“We have. But when the war is over there will be plenty of help. Renny and Piers will be home.”

“If ever they come home, poor darlings,” said Meg.

“How can you say such a thing!” exclaimed Alayne. “It is only the thought of their coming that makes it possible for me to keep things running.”

“They’ll come. They’ll come,” said Nicholas. “And it can’t be too soon for me.”

“Or for me,” declared Meg. “I don’t want them for what they can do, but just for themselves. Now that I have lost Maurice I yearn more and more for them.”

Ernest laid his hand on hers. “Poor girl, you have had a hard time. Now do tell us more about this Mr. Clapperton. I do so hope he will be a congenial neighbour.”

The talk circled round and round Mr. Clapperton and Meg’s plans for the future. She had barely gone when Rags entered, with an air of importance.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” he said, “but I ’ave to tell you that the oil ’eater ’as gone off. I can’t do nothing with it. Shall I telephone for the repair man to come out?”

“Oh, Rags.” Alayne spoke despairingly. “Can’t Wright do anything to make it go?”

“Naow, ma’am. Wright’s ’elpless as I am. I expect there’s a fuse blown out.”

“That oil heater,” said Nicholas, “is a pest. I sometimes wish you never had had it installed, Alayne.”

“You must acknowledge,” she returned, “that the house has had a more even temperature than ever before. You have said repeatedly how comfortable it has made every room.”

“I know. I know.” Nicholas spoke testily. He did not like to be reminded, as Alayne so often reminded him, of what he had said on another occasion. “But it’s always getting out of order. Do you remember the three days of last winter when it was zero weather and we had no heating?”

“That I do, sir,” said Rags. “And a quite bad cold Mr. Ernest caught.”

“What I most object to,” observed Ernest, “is that it keeps the drawing-room and library so warm that we no longer feel the need for the grate fires. They were undoubtedly cheerful.”

“We still often have one in the evening.”

“Yes, but it’s not the same as when one comes downstairs in the morning and sees a blaze crackling on the hearth.”

Rags spoke with that unctuous quality in his voice which Alayne detested. “It was indeed cheerful, sir. And I never grumbled at carrying the coals or wood, did I?”

“Indeed you didn’t.”

Alayne rose abruptly. “I must go to the children,” she said. “They will come to the table without washing unless I oversee them.”

“Speaking of the children, ma’am,” said Rags, “I have a note ’ere from Master Archer’s teacher. I met her on the road and she ’anded it to me.”

“Why didn’t you give it to me before?” asked Alayne.

“W’y, ma’am, I should think you’d know. Everything was knocked right out of me ’ead by the behaviour of that there oil ’eater.”

What an impudent way of speaking the man had, thought Alayne. She gave him an icy look as she took the note. She read:

Dear Mrs. Whiteoak,

I do so dislike to complain of dear little Archer, but he has been very late for school every morning this week and yesterday he did not appear till afternoon. This is very bad for his work which, as you know, is uneven. He is so clever in some ways. But ...

“Is anything wrong?” interrupted Nicholas.

“No—not exactly.”

“You look very disturbed,” observed Ernest, peering at her. “It’s bad to get upset over minor irritations.”

Rags was listening. To him Alayne said—“You may telephone for the repair man.” When he had left the room she exclaimed, almost tragically:

“It’s about Archer. He has been playing truant again. Really, I don’t know what to do about him.”

“Boarding school is the place for boys,” growled Nicholas. “The Spartan life there makes men of them.”

Ernest said—“You are not severe enough with Archer. You should give him a punishment he’d remember.”

Alayne loved her son with an almost painful devotion, painful because he fell so short of being what she would have him, fell so short of the large nobility of her father whom he physically resembled. She said:

“Miss Pink is not the type of teacher to hold Archer’s interest. She is far too old-fashioned.”

The door opened and a boy of eight years came into the room. He looked at his elders with an air of profound pessimism. As this was his habitual expression it roused no concern. He had a high white forehead, clearly cut features, a rather thin face but a sturdy body and legs. His eyes were intensely blue, his hair very fair, straight and dry. He stood planted in the middle of the room, as though inviting attack.

“Now then, sir,” said Ernest, “what about these complaints of you?”

“We know what you’ve been up to,” added Nicholas. “So there is no use in hedging.”

“I don’t like going to school,” said Archer. “It makes me tired.”

His mother looked at him anxiously. “Archer, when you say school makes you tired, do you mean it makes you tired in a slangy sense or do you mean that it tires you?”

Archer looked as though he had the weight of the universe on his shoulders as he considered this. Then he replied:

“Miss Pink makes me tired and lessons tire me.”

Nicholas slapped his thigh. “Good man! You’ve explained it perfectly.”

“Don’t praise him,” said Ernest. “It’s bad for him when he’s been obstreperous.”

“A little praise hurts no one,” returned Nicholas.

“But he should not be praised for a cheeky answer.”

“I don’t think Archer intended to be that,” said Alayne.

Ernest fixed a penetrating look on Archer. “Which did you intend,” he demanded, “to be cheeky or clever?”

“Both,” Archer answered promptly.

“We are getting nowhere,” said Alayne. “Archer had better come up to my room with me.” She rose and took the little boy’s hand.

“A switching is what he needs.” Ernest clenched his delicate white hand, as though it held the implement of chastisement. “Perhaps Finch would do it for you.”

“Why doesn’t Roma see that he gets to school?” asked Nicholas. “Where is Roma?”

Roma was standing just outside the door with her ear to the keyhole. She drew back as Alayne and Archer came out. Alayne asked suspiciously:

“What are you doing here, Roma?”

“Waiting for Archer.”

Roma spoke in a quiet little voice, and she had a quiet little face, an air as though she consciously made herself someone to pass unnoticed. When she was just old enough to run about she had been brought to Jalna, the fruit of dead Eden’s connection with Minny Ware, an English girl. The child had been conceived in Rome, whence came her name. She had known, almost from the first, that Alayne did not like her. She did not like Alayne. Roma was not shrinking or timid. If she had a self-effacing air, it was because she chose to be so. At eleven she looked more than two years younger than Adeline. To judge by her limbs she might later be tall but now she was small for her age. She had an odd charm, with her glistening fair hair, her narrow strange-coloured eyes, her high cheekbones and the sensitive full-lipped mouth which she had got from her father.

“Are you sure you were not listening at the door, Roma?” asked Alayne.

“Quite sure.” Roma smiled a little.

“That question was not intended to be amusing,” Alayne said sternly.

Roma took the smile from her face.

“I want you both to come in here with me.” Alayne led the children into the sitting-room.

They stood facing her, where she seated herself, looking imperviously small and innocent. Roma thought—“She has heaps of lines in her forehead when she’s worried. Why should she care if Archer goes to school? He won’t do what Miss Pink says. He won’t do what she says. He won’t mind anyone but Adeline. I wonder if I dare smile again.” The smile flickered across her lips.

“Roma,” said Alayne, “you knew very well that you were doing wrong in letting Archer play truant. You are older. You should guide him to do right.”

“He won’t let me.”

“You should have told me he was not at school.”

“That would be telling tales.”

“Archer must be told of, when he does anything so wrong as this.”

“I’m hungry,” said Archer. “Could I have my tea?”

“Yes. But no cake. No jam. Just salad and bread.”

“Salad gives me indigestion.”

“Then you may have an egg.”

“Thank you, Mother.” He spoke in a sweet, soothing voice. He got on to her lap and laid his cheek against hers. She said:

“Go upstairs and wash and brush your hair, Roma. I wish to talk privately to Archer. I am deeply hurt, and very displeased with both of you.”

Adeline was going up the stairs as Roma closed the door of the sitting-room behind her.

“Hullo,” said Adeline. “Who’s in there?”

“Aunt Alayne and Archer. He’s been late for school all week. About ten or eleven o’clock. And yesterday he didn’t come till afternoon.”

Adeline whistled, then said—“Come on up to my room.” She darted up the stairs. Roma followed.

Inside her room, Adeline shut the door and locked it.

“Goodness!” said Roma. “Your back’s all over mud. So is your leg.”

“Jester threw me. He was in a bad mood. Gosh, it hurt! I want you to rub liniment on me. I don’t want Mummie to know. She wouldn’t let me ride him at the show.”

“She won’t anyway. I heard her say so.”

Adeline was drawing off her muddy pullover. She dropped it to the floor. “We’ll see about that,” she said.

“Couldn’t Wright ride him?”

“Jester is in the ladies’ saddle-horse class, you duffer.”

“Couldn’t Auntie Pheasant ride him?”

“She couldn’t possibly handle him. She hasn’t been riding. She hasn’t the time.”

Having stripped her upper part, she got a bottle of liniment from the cupboard and handed it to Roma. She turned her beautiful sun-tanned back to her.

“Rub here,” she commanded, and indicated the area below the small of the back. She groaned as Roma rubbed but repeated—“Harder.”

The handle of the door was rattled. “Let me in,” came Archer’s voice.

“Go away!”

“No! I want to come in.”

“We’re busy.”

A kick resounded on the door.

Adeline went to it, opened it, grasped a handful of his dry tow hair, and half lifted him into the room by it. Again she locked the door. Archer made no outcry but, when she freed him, examined her back with scientific interest.

“It doesn’t look sore,” he said.

“I wish you had it.”

“I’d rather have it than my tonsils. They have got to come out, the doctor says.”

“I saw a horse at the Queenstown fair that had had his tonsils out.”

“Did it bleed much?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t there. But it saved his life.”

“I expect having mine out will save mine.”

“A lot of expense and trouble for a small thing,” observed Roma.

Archer made a pass at the bottle of liniment. Adeline took it from Roma. “That’s enough,” she said. “Now I must attend to my leg.” She pulled up the leg of her breeches and disclosed a knee with a deep rasp on it.

Roma drew back but Archer leant close, his high white forehead giving him a profound look. Adeline produced a bottle of iodine. He begged:

“Please, Adeline, let me put it on! I won’t hurt you half as much as you’d hurt yourself. Please do!” He tried to take possession of the swab she had made.

She hesitated, then said firmly—“No. I’ll do it myself.” She immersed the swab in the iodine, looked at the bloody knee, looked at Roma and Archer pathetically. “Oo, how I hate to!” she said. “It will hurt like the dickens.”

“Let Archer do it,” said Roma.

“No.”

“I’ll put my arm round you,” said Archer.

This he did, leaning rather heavily on her. She set her teeth. She pressed the swab to her knee. Colour flooded her face. Again and again she sterilised the rasped place. She handed the swab to Roma, then sat down and rocked herself.

A knock came on the door. The handle turned. Alayne’s voice said—“Why have you locked the door, Adeline?”

“So Archer wouldn’t bother me.”

“Well, let me in, dear, I want to speak to you.”

Adeline pointed under the bed. Silently Archer scrambled beneath it. Adeline kicked her muddy pullover after him. She drew down the leg of her breeches and opened the door. Alayne came in, noting with distaste that peculiar air of squalor which children are able to impart to the rooms they occupy. She said:

“So you are changing, Adeline. That’s right. What a smell of iodine!”

“I scratched my finger,” said Roma. She went to the medicine cupboard and, before returning the bottle to it, stuck her finger in the iodine. She held up the finger in front of Alayne, who remarked:

“That is right. It’s well to be careful.” Then she turned to Adeline. “Did you know,” she asked, “that Archer has been playing truant from school?”

“I knew he’d been a little late.”

“How did you know?”

“He remarked that he’d been a little late.”

“A little late!” cried Alayne. “Yesterday he did not arrive till afternoon.”

“I expect it’s his tonsils. They’re poisoning his system and making him tired.”

“I suppose they are, poor little fellow. But how I dread his having them out!”

“He’ll be all right, Mummie. If you’ll let me, I will go with him to the hospital.”

Alayne gave a little laugh. “You know you are suggesting the impossible, Adeline.”

The child flushed. Alayne noticed her beautiful back, her shoulders where the dark auburn waves of her hair floated. Alayne gave her a pat, then sniffed her hand. “Liniment! What is the matter?”

“I’m a bit stiff. Roma was rubbing my back. Jester is quite a one to pull, you know, Mummie.”

“Adeline, if you knew how I dislike your riding that horse! If your father were here I don’t think he’d want you to. I don’t think Jester is suitable for a girl to ride.”

“Oh, Mummie, you don’t know what you’re talking about!”

Alayne’s voice came sharply. “Adeline, I will not have you speak to me like that.”

“Sorry. But, really, if you’d ever ridden him you’d think he was perfect. He canters like an angel.”

“Well, someone else can ride him at the Ormington Show. I’ll not endure the thought of your riding that temperamental creature, in such a big show. He’s terrifying.”

“If I don’t, who will?”

“Wright can ride him.”

“He can’t! Jester loves me! I’ll get a big price for him, you’ll see.”

“Adeline, don’t be foolish. You must listen to me. We can hire someone to ride Jester. Anyhow we are not dependent on the sale of one horse.”

“It will make three I’ve sold.”

Alayne tried to speak patiently. “I know. You have done very well. But the time has come for you to—to——” She hesitated.

Adeline’s luminous eyes, with the changeful lights in their brown depths, were fixed on hers.

“To what?” she asked.

“Well, you’re thirteen. You’re not just a little girl. The people you meet at these fall fairs and horse shows aren’t always the sort you should associate with. It isn’t as though I were there with you.”

“Come with me then.”

“And stand for hours among horses and grooms and queer people? You know how I’d hate it.”

“Lots of the people aren’t queer.”

“I know. But the atmosphere would be very uncongenial to me. It would be impossible. You are quite aware of that.”

“Auntie Pheasant and Maurice would go with me, in the car.”

Alayne was losing patience. She said—“Now, let us have an end to this. I forbid you to go.”

Adeline’s breast heaved. She gave a hard sob, then controlled herself. “Just this once,” she pleaded.

“At the next show it would be just the same.”

“It’s almost the end of the season.”

“You are getting behind with your school work.”

“Who cares!” Adeline cried defiantly.

“Now you are being just stupid,” Alayne said coldly. “I care. Your father cares very much. You think because he likes to see you ride, that your riding is most important to him, but he is anxious to see you well educated. I think I have made a mistake in letting you have his room. Because it is covered with pictures of horses and trophies, you have got the idea that he cares for little else! You are quite mistaken. He admires culture in a woman and, I may tell you, he admired it in me.”

Roma kept blowing on the finger she had dipped in the iodine Alayne asked irritably:

“Why do you do that?”

“It stings.”

Roma held up the finger.

“I can see no cut.”

“It’s under the nail.”

“I think you are making an unnecessary fuss over it.”

Roma’s eyes grew large, as they did when she was reproved.

Alayne had had to turn from Adeline. There had been something in her face that had the power of rousing a desire to hurt her, not physically, but by a calculated thrust against her personal egotism. Now Alayne, her hand on the door-knob, turned away.

“Tidy this room. I must go to Archer,” she said, and left.

Archer threw Adeline’s pullover from under the bed, then crept out, got stiffly to his feet like an old man, and walked over the pullover. He went to the window and observed:

“I see three men in a car going to the stable.” Adeline leaped to his side.

“It’s Mr. Crowdy and Mr. Chase!” she cried excitedly. “They’ve brought a man to see Rosina. They said they would. Wright and I’ve been expecting him all the week!”

She snatched her pullover from the floor and dragged it over her head. She pulled up her breeches and tightened her belt.

“I’m coming too,” said Roma.

“No. You stay and tidy the room. Tell Mummie I’m studying. I’ll buy you a big chocolate bar to-morrow. I’ve got to see these men.”

“I’m coming,” declared Archer.

She turned to him fiercely. “No!” She ran lightly down the stairs and out of the house. The three dogs were waiting outside. When she opened the door the little cairn terrier darted into the house and up to Nicholas’s room, but the other two ran with Adeline to the stables, the bob-tailed sheep-dog in loose shaggy movements, the bulldog solidly, with sturdy purpose.

The stable was brightly lighted by the electric lights, though outside the western sky was still aflame. The four men were in Rosina’s loose-box. She was a delicately made mare who could be intractable when things did not go to please her. She moved toward Adeline as she entered, as though to tell her that at this moment she was not too well pleased.

“Here’s my young lady,” said Wright, and the other three took off their hats.

One of them was a stranger to Adeline but the others she had known as long as she could remember. Chase was a lawyer who had been too indifferent to his profession to succeed in it. He had drifted quite naturally into the profession of horse dealing. He did not make a very good living at it, but he was a single man who wanted little. If it had not been for his friend Crowdy, he might often have been in financial straits, but Crowdy had the flair for picking a likely horse at a low cost, while Chase supplied the gentlemanly element that carried many a deal through. Now, with ceremony, he introduced the somewhat nervous buyer to Adeline.

“This young lady,” he said, “knows as much about horse-flesh as any man. She’s carrying on the business with Wright here, while her father, Colonel Whiteoak, is overseas.”

“She,” declared Crowdy, “is A1 in all respects.”

Adeline gravely shook hands with the stranger.

“Welcome to our stables,” she said, as she had heard her father say.

“This here gentleman,” said Wright, “has come to look at Rosina. He likes her looks, but he thinks she’s high-strung. He’s buying for a lady friend who’s not much of a rider.”

“She’s as nervous,” said the stranger, “as seven thousand cats.”

Adeline gravely considered this. Then—“This is her horse,” she said; “your lady friend couldn’t fall off her if she tried. Any more than she could fall off a rocking-chair.”

“And she’s pretty as a picture,” put in Chase.

“And dirt cheap at the price,” added Crowdy. “Did you say to me the other day that someone has an option on her?”

“Well, no,” answered Adeline, “not exactly an option. But he’s coming back to-morrow.”

“Well, well, to-morrow, you say? Would you mind telling me his name?”

Adeline turned to Wright. “What is his name, Wright?”

“Miller,” answered Wright. “In the brewery business.”

“Would that be R. G. Miller?” asked the stranger.

“No, sir. This is J. J. Miller.”

“John James,” amended Adeline.

“A large portly man,” said Chase, “with a cast in his left eye.”

Crowdy tapped the thick palm of his left hand with the forefinger of his right. “My God, sir, I caution you, don’t let that man buy her. Your lady friend will never forgive you. You’ll miss the chance of a lifetime. I have no personal interest in this sale, mind you. I only do what I can to help Colonel Whiteoak who is off fighting his country’s battles while we’re safe at home.”

“That’s the truth,” said Wright, “and it comes from one who has ridden her in half a dozen shows.”

“Perhaps your lady friend doesn’t want a real show horse.” As Adeline spoke, a remote look came over her face.

“But that’s just what she does want. She may not ride at shows herself but she wants to show the animal and win prizes.”

Adeline turned to Wright. “Do you think it is light enough for me to put Rosina over a few jumps, just to show what she’s like?”

“It’s still bright in the west, miss.”

Still wearing the remote air, Adeline went with the men to the paddock where half a dozen white-painted hurdles lent an air of purpose. She mounted the mare and, in a preliminary canter, showed her style. The mare’s beauty and the child’s grace were well matched. The swallow in his flight was scarcely better poised. Then, thudding over the turf, they came and cleared the hurdles, one after the other, without a tick.

Crowdy turned to the prospective buyer. “Ever see the like of that? Ain’t she a winner?” But whether it was mare or child he designated he did not say.

“That’s a sight,” said Chase, “in these contemptible days, when the motor-car has pushed the horse into limbo and all a young fellow thinks of is getting a swell car or, if he hasn’t means for that, a motor-cycle. God!” The Deity’s name was uttered on a note of indescribable despair.

When Adeline had dismounted, Wright, with the bridle over his arm, said—“Well, sir, have you made up your mind?”

“I’ll buy her,” returned the man, “if you’ll take fifty dollars off the price.”

Without hesitation Wright answered—“I couldn’t think of it, sir. I’m here to get a just price for Colonel Whiteoak’s horses. I couldn’t face him if I’d been giving them away.”

“Especially,” said Crowdy, “when he’s fighting for his country and we’re safe at home. It wouldn’t seem right to beat down the price.”

“If he were here,” added Chase, “he’d say take it or leave it and be damned.”

As Adeline limped back toward the house she sang a joyful, though rather tuneless, song of triumph. The bargain had been clinched. The mare sold. She had done her part and done it well. But how her knee hurt! She would bathe it in hot water before she went to bed.

Inside the house she could hear that the family were at table. She limped softly upstairs. She washed face and hands and then brushed her hair, not attempting to get out the tangles. She took off pullover and breeches and put on a little cotton dress she had outgrown but which still served for evenings at home. She must not wear socks. She must not show that awful-looking knee. She drew on a pair of the long black stockings she wore at school and hastened down to the dining-room. She was about to seat herself when Alayne stopped her.

“Wait a moment,” she said peremptorily, but with a quiver in her voice, “and tell me why you went back to the stables after I had told you to dress.”

“Yes,” added Nicholas, “we want to know what you were up to.” There was a mischievous gleam in his deep-set eyes.

Oh, that ever-recurring “we”, thought Alayne. It dragged her down to the level, in authority, of old great-uncles!

Adeline answered—“I had left my books in the stable. I had to go back for them.”

“And it took you three-quarters of an hour to find them! You can scarcely expect me to believe that.”

“When I got to the stable there was something interesting going on, so I stayed.”

“That’s right,” put in Ernest, “tell the truth. You’ll get a lighter punishment if you are truthful.” His forget-me-not blue gaze beamed encouragement at the child.

“If I’d dared to be truthful about my doings at her age,” said Finch, “I’d have got a clip on the ear that would have knocked me flat.”

“Oh, would you really, Uncle Finch?” cried Archer.

“You can bet I would. And a yank on the other ear to pick me up.”

Archer gave a shout of laughter. He fell back in his chair and laughed helplessly.

Alayne sprang up, went to him, lifted him upright and whispered in his ear—“Archer, do you want to go straight up to your room?”

“Oo,” he giggled, “your hair’s tickling my ear! Ooo!”

Roma, sitting next him, pinched him on the thigh. He uttered a squeal, then collapsed giggling. He shut his eyes tight and showed the interior of his mouth in an insane grin.

“Archer!” ordered both great-uncles at once. “Behave yourself!”

He straightened himself, hiccuping.

“Come and sit down, Adeline,” said Alayne, in a tense voice. She felt nervously exhausted. For the remainder of the meal she discussed sedulously with Finch a critical article in a musical magazine. The children were silent except for an occasional hiccup or smothered giggle from Archer. Rags brought a dish of hot soup for Adeline, setting it in front of her with a solicitous air.

When she had returned to her room she took the pile of textbooks that lay on her bed and slammed them on to the table. The door opened and Archer came in.

“I’m on my way to bed,” he remarked.

“That’s good news.”

He advanced to where he could look into her face. “You lied to Mummie, didn’t you?” he said.

“Yes,” she answered tersely. Then she added, while she sorted the books—“I had to. It was for her own good. It was for her good to sell Rosina. I had to help. It wasn’t a bit like you pretending you went to school when you didn’t. That was just for your own fun.”

Archer’s brow became noble. “Mr. Fennel says we should pray for forgiveness when we’ve told a lie. Have you ever?”

“No.”

“I’ll bet you’re afraid to.”

“Why?”

“Well, God might say out loud that He forgave you. You’d not like that, would you?”

“Of course I should.”

“To be spoken to out loud from the ceiling!”

“Mummie doesn’t believe in that kind of God.”

“Does Daddy?”

“I think he believes what Mr. Fennel believes.”

“I guess you ought to ask God to forgive you.”

“All right, I will. Now, get out.”

“I wish you’d ask Him while I’m here.”

“People don’t pray in front of other people.”

“If you’ll pray, just this once, in front of me, I’ll promise not to stay away from school again.”

“All right. But if you break your promise you’ll be sorry.”

With a decidedly grumpy expression she threw down the book she held and, limping to the bed, knelt beside it. She could not kneel on the injured knee, so that leg, in its long black stocking, stuck stiffly out to one side. She folded her hands, closed her eyes, and said:

“Please, God, forgive me for lying to my mother. Please make her understand it was for her own good. And please fix things so I shan’t have to do it again. Amen.”

Archer stood with one hand holding his chin, his intense blue gaze bent on her. About once in three days Archer smiled, and now he did.

Alayne’s voice came from without. “Archer! Archer! Where are you?”

Adeline took him by the shoulders, opened the door, and thrust him into the passage.

“My throat’s sore!” she heard him whine, as he went to meet his mother.

Adeline arranged her books on the table. Then she went to the rack where Renny’s pipes were hung. She selected one she knew to be a favourite of his. She took it from the rack and returned to the table. Seating herself, she put the amber mouthpiece between her lips and drew a few reflective puffs. Then she laid the pipe on the table and applied herself to her studies.