“Nor me,” said Bell, more courageous, indifferent to grammar--and going on with hardihood after she had made the first plunge. “There would be Madame Tussaud’s, and the Crystal Palace, and the British Museum, and Westminster Abbey, and all the bazaars. However bad the weather was, there would always be something. I dare say mamma would take us to the theatre.” “But not just now,” said Marie. “It would not be nice to go just now. It would look as if we had forgotten----” “Did I say _now_? At present it is only autumn, and everybody is in the country. But when the days get short and dark, and you have to light the candles directly--What is it?” cried Bell, for Marie had shaken herself off her branch, and, with a cry of dismay, stood looking apparently at something which was coming. “Is it Mademoiselle?” said the little girl under her breath. Mademoiselle had a particular objection to that nest in the tree. Bell’s seat was one which was usually occupied by a boy, not one of the girls’ places, as Roland and Harry contemptuously called the lower branches. It required some ingenuity to clamber into it, and more to get down again--and not only ingenuity, but an absence of petticoats would have been desirable. Bell felt herself catching here and there as she tried to get down hastily. Then came the sound of a long rent, which sent her brain all whirling. Her new black frock! and what would nurse say? The idea of nurse and Mademoiselle both waiting, full of fury, for her descent, was enough to obscure the perceptions of any child. Her foot slipped from a mossy and treacherous twig; she caught wildly at something, she did not know what, and with a sudden whirr and whirl and blackness lost herself altogether for a moment. When she became aware of what was going on again, she found herself seated at the foot of the tree, staring across the fishpond, with a lump on her forehead and a singing in her ears. Marie was crying, bending over her, and saying, “Oh! what can we do--what shall I do? Do you think she will die, Mr. Gus?” “Oh, what a little goose you are!” murmured Bell, gradually coming to herself. “What should I die for? I have only got a knock--on my head.” She felt the lump on her forehead wonderingly as she spoke, for it hurt her, and nature directed her hand to the spot. “I have got a _dreadful_ knock on my head,” she added, not without satisfaction. Then Bell leaned back on something, she did not know what, and saw a hand come round from behind with a wet handkerchief to lay upon her forehead. The hand was a brown hand with a big ring on it, at which Bell vaguely wondered where she had seen it before. Then, all of a sudden, she jumped up, upon her feet, though she felt very queer and giddy. “It is that little gentleman! You have been talking to him, Marie!” “And won’t you talk to me, too?” said Gus, following her with his wet handkerchief. “Well, never mind, put on this. The water is out of your own fishpond; it cannot do you any harm.”