Before he slept that night he knew all about Grace, and decided that she was a person to be cultivated. But he felt that about all of them. His coming into that silent (save for the dogs), regular house was something of an adventure. The household rose to it, and the loquacious, inquisitive, lively little boy never even knocked at their hearts, but walked straight in and took possession. He decided that England was a nice place: a bit cold, perhaps, when one got up in the morning, but very pretty and full of interesting things to do. He gardened with the three gardeners, wasting hours of their time, and starting endless horticultural experiments which were wholly without result. He cleaned the motor with Robinson and got so wet that Grace, looking out of the pantry window, caught him and changed all his clothes, which he thought very unnecessary. It was her one fault—she was always so suspicious of damp. He penetrated to the kitchen, and discussed its small resemblance to an Indian kitchen with Mrs. Robinson, who was Robinson’s wife. He was very fond of telling them about India, and thoroughly enjoyed their respectful astonishment at some of his tallest stories, and when he wasn’t telling things himself he asked questions. All day long he asked questions, so that, when he was safe in bed and asleep, Uncle Gerald would take down large heavy tomes from the book-cases and prime himself with useful knowledge for the morrow. Into every corner of that big old Cotswold house did Ronnie poke his inquisitive curly head, and the more he saw of it the better he liked it. It was such a kind, welcoming sort of house. Of course, sometimes he wanted his mother pretty badly, and then he sought Uncle Gerald, who seemed to know exactly what was wrong, and no matter what he was doing would find time for a homesick little boy; and by the charm of his conversation, and sometimes without any conversation at all, would so steep Ronnie in an atmosphere of warm friendship that the curious ache would depart, leaving no remembrance of it. And now, as he sat looking into the forest of corn, there came to his mind a piece of poetry that he had learned to please Uncle Gerald. It was a very great adventure that led to the learning of these verses, and Ronnie thrilled with the remembrance. One night early in that June, one never-to-be-forgotten night, Uncle Gerald came into his room and woke him up, made Grace put on his clothes, and then wrapped him up in a blanket and carried him out to the back of the house where there was a little copse. The dogs were not allowed to come. It was a brilliant moonlight night—almost like a night in India, except that it was nothing like so warm. The copse looked very black against the sky, but they didn’t go into it; they stayed outside just beside the wire fence, and some way off he could see the servants standing in a group.