When, for instance, Gran’papa’s grudging and suspicious recognition of those hot-bloods Mr. Tennyson and Mr. Dickens, was compared in her alert mind with Justin’s yawning admission that he really must wade through ’em all some day, she would give a little gurgle of laughter all to herself, though she did not really know why. But she was sure her mother would have laughed too in that half-forgotten fascinating way of hers and have made the funniness obvious to Laura. Laura was sure of that. Even _Sam Weller_ was not quite so funny when you met him by yourself—but when Mother had read it aloud—oh, did the twins remember? But the twins never remembered anything. Never remembered, never cared for anything but trains, and rigging up telephones in the cherry trees, and catapulting robins, never wanted Laura except at night when there were stories to be told, or when they quarrelled with each other in the day-time. And certainly never noticed much difference between the edition of _Alice_ that Gran’papa produced from a corner of his bookshelf one birthday and the parcel from Justin by the post, with the same familiar letterpress and most unfamiliar drawings by a certain sacrilegious Mr. Rackham. There again Gran’papa’s indignation, though she agreed with him, struck her as humorous. In short, she was beginning, what with one mentor and the other, to form a judgment of her own, not to mention a morality. The fundamental ‘shalt nots,’ built up secretly, like coral rocks, in her childish deeps, were, in the lull that precedes the teens, beginning to show starkly above water. “Never, never cry. “It’s nice to be in the right, but it makes them squash you. “Never argue with Gran’papa. “Never remind Justin of what he said last holidays. “Never say you’re tired.”