‘You see, Lennox? I generally give way; but I am afraid of it growing upon her, if I never see the child. He is such a splendid fellow!’ As he spoke, his wife returned with the boy in her arms. ‘I met him in the hall,’ she explained; ‘he was just coming in from his walk.—No, Arthur, don’t take him: he is not at all heavy.’ This last to her husband, who had advanced with outstretched hands. ‘Look here, Bertie, darling. Who likes cake?’ She seated herself on a low chair, still keeping a jealous arm around the child, and went on talking, this time to me. ‘Arthur and I quarrel over this small boy.’ She laughed a little, but it sounded very mirthless. ‘The last cause of dissension is his health. I think he is growing delicate and wants change, and papa doesn’t agree. Does he, my beauty?’ The boy laughed as she held him yet more closely to her; and looking at his rosy cheeks and bright eyes, it seemed to me that there could not be a healthier youngster. ‘I am afraid I must take papa’s side,’ I said. ‘You must not alarm yourself unnecessarily, dear Mrs Crawford, for I think’—— I stopped abruptly, alarmed by the expression on her face. I was new at my work, be it remembered; but I think that older men than I would have been frightened. Bertie had rebelled against the detaining arm; and sliding on to the floor, had run to his father and climbed into his arms. A fine game of romps now ensued, and the mother sat and watched them. Sitting there facing her, I, too, was watching. In my student days, I had kept a tame lizard, and by whistling to it, had been able to direct its movements at will, and now I was reminded of my whilom pet by watching Beatrice Crawford’s eyes. Every motion of her husband’s, as he ran round the room tossing the laughing boy in his arms, appeared to hold a fascination for her, and her gaze never left him but once. That once was when she walked swiftly to a further table and possessed herself of a paper-knife, which she handed to me, commenting on its curious make. It was of steel and sharply pointed; and I handed it back again with the remark, that it would make a nasty weapon if needed. She took it without glancing at me again; but her husband had caught her words, and now came up to us breathless and laughing, with Bertie clinging round his neck. ‘Don’t hold that thing, my darling,’ he said tenderly. ‘I hate to see such an ugly knife in your dear little hands.’ ‘Give it to Bertie, mamma,’ cried the child, stretching dimpled hands for the coveted treasure; and his father, with an injunction to be careful, was taking it from her to give to him, when, with a muffled cry, she snatched the knife back and dashed it through the open window into the garden beyond.