Mr. Waring turned nervously and made a gentle effort to disengage his hand from his wife’s, but she clutched him firmly. “Henry,” she cried, “you would not desert me?” “Oh, my dear,” he gasped, “what can I do? The child must be cleansed and, I presume, punished. I can be of no use,” and he still showed signs of flight, but the horror-stricken eyes of his wife, fixed pleadingly on him, made him waver and wait. By a superhuman effort Mary got up first. “Oh, ma’am,” she shrieked in tones that went through Mrs. Waring’s head, “Oh, ma’am, look at her! I found her with nothing on but this rag and some leaves, painted blue, and varnished—varnished, sir, eating acorns outside of the orchard fence. It’s common indecency, ma’am, and if it’s to continue I can’t”— By this time Gwen had arrived, desperately blown, but overflowing with words; rather an advantage under the circumstances, for her parents had not one between them. “Mother, I were a woaded Briton and blue all over. Mag Dow did me behind and I done the front, and it aren’t common naked if queens done it like you said. She did, Mary, say it Thursday when she begun the history course. Dacre was to be a woaded king too, but he were a beast and wouldn’t do nothing but swing turkeys for discerpline.” “Mary, I think perhaps you should give Miss Gwen a bath, and then we will consider what further course to take.” Mrs. Waring caught her skirts nervously and drew a step nearer to her husband. “A bath, ma’am! Don’t you see she’s painted and varnished, no water’ll touch that, ma’am, turpentine it must be and cart grease, not to say paraffin,—and, ma’am, the indecency!” “Please, Mary,” implored the tortured woman, “oh, please take her away and put the cart grease on—and—the other things, and we can then talk over the rest.” Here the light of a sudden inspiration leapt into her face, and she turned to her husband. “Henry,” she said solemnly, “do you not think that Gwen should go to bed? She seems to me,” she continued, taking a critical survey of the blue-daubed figure, “she seems to me a little old for such very peculiar adaptations of history.” “To bed,” remarked the husband infinitely relieved. It seemed quite a happy solution to the whole question, and must fulfil every purpose,—be Gwen’s Nemesis, a salve to Mary’s hurt morality, and a merciful deliverance to all others concerned. “Yes, a very sensible suggestion of yours, dearest. I consider that it would be a most salutary measure to send Gwen to bed.” “Indeed, sir,” remarked Mary, without a particle of the satisfaction that might have been expected from her, “Miss Gwen will be fit for no other place by the time I’ve done with her, what with the paraffin and the scrubbing and her skin that tender. Oh come, Miss, come away,” she cried grimly, laying hold of Gwen.