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them, and others
trembled on her lower eyelids, propelled from some artesian fount
within.

"Oh, dry up, Queenie!" said Wilfred irritably. "Anyone 'ud think you'd
cut your silly finger off!"
"Well--it'th bleed-in'!" wailed Queenie. She dabbed the injured member
with the pillow case she was hemming, adding a scarlet touch in
pleasant contrast to its prevailing grime.
"Well--you're too big a girl to cry for a prick," said Cecilia wearily.
"People who are nearly seven really don't cry except for something
awfully bad."
"There--I'll tell the mater you said awfully!" Avice jeered. "Who bites
our heads off for using slang, I'd like to know?"
"You wouldn't have much head left if I bit for every slang word you
use," retorted her half-sister. "Do get on with your French, Avice--it's
nearly half-past twelve, and you know Eliza will want to lay the table
presently. Come here, Queenie." She took the pillow case, and
unpicked a few stitches, which clearly indicated that the needle had
been taking giant strides. "Just hem that last inch or two again, and see
if you can't make it look nice. I believe the needle only stuck into your
finger because you were making it sew so badly. Have you got a
handkerchief?--but, of course, you haven't." She polished the fat,
tear-stained cheek with her own. "Now run and sit down again."
Queenie turned to go obediently enough--she was too young, and
possibly too fat, to plan, as yet, the deliberate malice in which her
brother and sister took their chief pleasure. Unfortunately, Wilfred
arrived at the end of Africa at the wrong moment for her. He pushed the
atlas away from him with a jerk that overturned the ink bottle, sending
a stream of ink towards Avice--who, shoving her chair backwards to
escape the deluge, cannoned into Queenie, and brought her headlong to
the floor. Howls broke out anew, mingled with a crisp interchange of
abuse between the elder pair, while Cecilia vainly sought to lessen the
inky flood with a duster. Upon this pleasant scene the door opened
sharply.
"A nice way you keep order at lessons," said Mrs. Mark Rainham

acidly. "And the ink all over the cloth. Well, all I can say is, you'll pay
for a new one, Cecilia."
"I did not knock it over," said Cecilia, in a low tone.
"It's your business to look after the children, and see that they do not
destroy things," said her stepmother.
"The children will not obey me."
"Pouf!" said Mrs. Rainham. "A mere question of management. High-
spirited children want tact in dealing with them, that is all. You never
trouble to exercise any tact whatever." Her eyes dwelt fondly on her
high-spirited son, whose red head was bent attentively over Africa
while he traced a mighty mountain range along the course of the Nile.
"Wilfred, have you nearly finished your work?"
"Nearly, Mater," said the industrious Wilfred, manufacturing
mountains tirelessly. "Just got to stick in a few more things."
"Say 'put,' darling, not 'stick.' Cecilia, you might point out those little
details--that is, if you took any interest in their English."
"Thethilia thaid 'awfully' jutht now," said Queenie, in a shrill pipe.
"I don't doubt it," said Mrs. Rainham, bitterly. "Of course, anyone
brought up in Paris is too grand to trouble about English-- but we think
a good deal of these things in London." A little smile hovered on her
thin lips, as Cecilia flushed, and Avice and her brother grinned broadly.
The Mater could always make old Cecilia go as red as a beetroot, but it
was fun to watch, especially when the sport beguiled the tedium of
lessons.
A clatter of dishes on a tray heralded the approach of Eliza.
"It is time the table was clear," Mrs. Rainham said. "Wilfred, darling, I
want you to post a letter. Put up your work and get your cap. Cecilia,
you had better try to clean the cloth before lunch; it is ruined, of course,

but do what you can with it. I will choose another the next time I am in
London. And just make sure that the children's things are all in order
for the dancing lesson this afternoon. Avice, did you put out your
slippers to be cleaned?"
"Forgot all about it, Mater," said Avice cheerfully.
"Silly child--and it is Jackson's day off. Just brush them up for her,
Cecilia. When the children have gone this afternoon, I want you to see
to the drawing-room; some people are coming in to-night, and there are
fresh flowers from Brown's to arrange."
Cecilia looked up, with a sudden flush of dismay. The children's
dancing lesson gave her one free afternoon during the week.
"But--but I am going to meet Bob," she stammered.
"Oh, Bob will wait, no doubt; you need not keep him