Silence falls on the room, except for a light conversation being carried on between Dicky and Monkton, both of whom have heard nothing. Lady Monkton looks uncomfortable. Sir George hastens to the rescue. "Surely you haven't told us everything, Tommy?" says he giving his grandson a pull toward him. "Besides Mr. Bluebeard, what else was there?" "Lots of things," says Tommy, vaguely, coming back from an eager attention to Miss L'Estrange's evil suggestion to a fresh remembrance of his past delights. "There was a band and it shouted. Nurse said it took the roof off her head, but I looked, and her bonnet didn't stir. And there was the harlequin, he was beautiful. He shined like anything. He was all over scales, like a trout." "A queer fish," says his grandfather. "He jumped about and beat things with a little stick he had. And he danced, and there was a window and he sprang right through it, and he came up again and wasn't a bit hurt, not a bit. Oh! he was lovely, grandpapa, and so was his concubine----" "His what?" says Sir George. "His concubine. His sweetheart. That was her name," says Tommy confidently. There is a ghastly silence. Lady Monkton's pale old cheeks color faintly. Miss L'Estrange glares. As for Barbara, she feels the world has at last come to an end. They will be angry with the boy. Her mission to London will have failed--that vague hope of a reconciliation through the children that she had yet scarcely allowed to herself. Need it be said that Mr. Browne has succumbed to secret but disgraceful mirth. A good three-quarters of a full-sized handkerchief is already in his mouth--a little more of the cambric and "death through suffocation" will adorn the columns of the _Times_ in the morning. Sir George, too, what is the matter with him? He is speechless--from indignation one must hope. "What ails you, grandpa?" demands Tommy, after a full minute's strict examination of him. "Oh, nothing, nothing," says Sir George, choking; "it is only--that I'm glad you have so thoroughly enjoyed yourself and your harlequin, and--ha, ha, ha, your Columbine. Columbine, now mind. And here's this for you, Tommy, because you are such a good boy." He opens the little grandson's hand and presses into the pink palm of it a sovereign. "Thank you," says Tommy, in the polite regulation tone he has been taught, without a glance at his gift--a touch of etiquette he has been taught, too. Then the curious eyes of childhood wander to the palm, and, seeing the unexpected pretty gold thing lying there, he colors up to the tips of his ears with surprise and pleasure. Then sudden compunction seizes on the kindly little heart. The world is strange to him. He knows but one or two here and there. His father is poor. A sovereign--that is, a gold piece--would be rare with him, why not rare with another? Though filled with admiration and gratitude for the giver of so big a gift, the child's heart commands him not to accept it.