“Some!” cried Mrs. Chester, reproachfully. “You must have eaten quantities. What shall I do, Mother? He is sure to be ill to-morrow; he has such a delicate digestion.” “They must all be punished, of course,” was Grandma’s instant decision. “They have chosen to make little pigs of themselves, and must take the consequences. They shall each have a dose of castor oil before going to bed, and as they cannot possibly be hungry at present, they can go up to the nursery, where Mary will bring them each a bowl of bread and milk, which is all the dinner they require.” Paul had grown scarlet. Twice he opened his lips to speak, and the little girls held their breaths, but each time he closed them resolutely, and when the four chairs were pushed back from the table, in obedience to Grandma’s mandate, he rose with the rest. His only protest was against the threatened dose. “I’ll eat bread and milk if I’ve got to,” he compromised, “but I won’t take that nasty castor oil.” “You will do as you are told,” said Grandma, sternly, and although Paul’s mother looked distressed, she dared not interfere. “Oh, Paul, you are a brave, splendid boy,” whispered Molly, gratefully, as the five little culprits went solemnly up-stairs together. “We were so afraid you were going to tell.” Paul shrugged his shoulders impatiently. “I promised I wouldn’t tell,” he said. “Father says it’s dishonorable to break a promise. I don’t mind bread and milk very much--it’s better than soup with onions in it, anyway--but you don’t suppose she really meant that about the castor oil, do you?” “I’m afraid she did,” said Dulcie. “Grandma never says things she doesn’t mean. Will you mind it so very much, Paul? It isn’t so awfully bad if you take it in orange juice, and drink it very fast, so you don’t have time to taste.” Paul made a wry face. “It’s nasty,” he said. “I never took it but once. That was when I ate green apples, and Mother thought I was going to die. I won’t tell, though, you needn’t be scared, I won’t tell, no matter what happens.” They had reached the nursery by this time, and Dulcie paused in the act of turning up the gas. “Paul,” she said, impressively, “I think you are one of the nicest boys in this world. If you’d lived in the time of the martyrs, I’m almost sure you would have been one. That saint boy who stood and shouted that he was a Christian, while they were shooting him with arrows, was about the bravest one I ever read about, but if you’d been alive then, I believe you’d have done just the same.” Paul was very much flattered. “Perhaps I might,” he admitted, modestly. “I’d like to read about him. Have you got the book?” “No, I got it out of the library, but I can try to get it again, if you would like to read it. Do you think you will really be able to swallow that castor oil without telling you didn’t eat all that fruit?” Paul nodded reassuringly.