BEFORE the station clock had chimed six the following morning, every soul in the Wilkinsons' bungalow was astir. The portly head of the house, clad in lily-white drill, and mounted on a lily-white charger, had ambled off at daybreak, to preside over the cantonment rations. In the long west verandah, the bamboo blinds were already down in order to keep out the blinding glare, and behind these "chicks" the entire family was assembled. Three podgy, pasty-faced children were solemnly playing at bazaar, and buying, selling, and chaffering, in ludicrous but unconscious imitation of their elders. The fourth was a mere spectator in the arms of the fat ayah who with her understudy kept order among the infants. Occasionally a shrill exclamation, a whimper, or a howl, arose from their corner, but taking them _en masse_, Beany, Pinky Tod, and Baba were unemotional and well-behaved infants. They ate well, slept well, and conducted themselves sedately. Nevertheless, it must be confessed that they were not fair to see, but then we all know that it is better to be good than beautiful. A painful illustration of this axiom was beside them, in the shape of their half-sister Angel, who with puckered brows and compressed lips, was labouring away at a handsewing machine, and turning out yards of faultlessly hemmed frills. She was pretty, all the ladies said so—indeed, she said so herself—but even the dog boy was aware that Missy Angel was not good, did not want to be good, and made no secret of the terrible fact. Angel assured her brothers that it was a thousand times nicer to be wicked. She would not eat cold curry, she refused to go to bed at seven o'clock, she laughed at her kind papa, and sang when the ayahs scolded her.