And all the prophets said it was to be a hard winter. The holly-trees in the park, where they grew very tall, were already crimson with berries. Already one or two nights’ frost had made the geraniums droop. A hard winter! The last had been said to be a mild one. If this was worse than that, Sir Gus did not know what he should do. The day, however, passed over more easily than he thought. His aunt, Mrs. Lenny, was a godsend to him as the colonel was to the boys. She made him talk of nothing but “the island” all the day long. It was long since she had left it. She wanted to know about everybody, the old negroes, the governor’s parties, the regiments that had been there. On her side she had a hundred stories to tell of her own youth, which looked all the brighter for being so far in the distance. They took a drive together in the middle of the day, basking in the sunshine, and as the evening came on they had a roaring fire, and felt themselves in the tropics. “Shouldn’t you like to go back?” Mrs. Lenny said. “If I were as rich as you, Gus, I’d have my estate there, like in the old days, and there I’d spend my winters. With all the money you’ve got, what would it matter whether it paid or not? You could afford to keep everything up as in the old days.” “But there’s the sea. I would do it in a moment,” Gus said, his brown face lighting up, “but for the sea.” “You would soon get used to the sea--it’s nothing. You would get over the sickness in a day, and then it’s beautiful. Take me with you one time, Gus, there’s a darling. I’d like to see it all again before I die.” “I’ll think of it,” Gus said: and indeed for the next twenty-four hours he thought of nothing else. Would it be possible? Some people went to Italy for the winter, why not to Barbadoes? No doubt it was a longer voyage; but then what a different life, what a smoothed and warmed existence, without all this English cold and exercise. He thought of it, neither more nor less, all the next night and all the next day.