“He was killed in India,” said Di, in a low tone, her womanly little face growing dark with a sudden twilight of feeling more serious than her years. “They don’t want _us_ to fight,” said Derwie, whom this personal digression did not withdraw from his main interest; “you may be sure, Clary, they don’t want a little thing like you, or me, or Willie; to be sure, if we had been older!--but never mind, there’s sure to be somebody to fight with when we’re big enough; and then there’s such famous fellows there--there’s Sam Rivers, I was telling you of, that Huntingdonshire man; I know his mother, I’ll take you to see her, if you like; and there’s Bertie--there’s our Bertie, don’t you know?--he’ll never come home till they’re all safe, or till he’s killed.” “If he’s killed he’ll never come back,” said Willie Sedgwick. “Oh, I wish you would go away, you horrid great boy!” cried Clary, indignantly--“Killed! when you know mamma is so fond of Mrs. Crofton’s Bertie, and loves him as much as Uncle Maurice!--but Willie doesn’t care for anything,” she said, in an aggrieved tone, turning away from her brother with a disgust which I slightly shared. “I could bear him to be killed,” said Derwie, who, poor child, had never seen the hero he discussed, “if he did something worth while first--like that one, you know, who blew himself up, or that one”---- “But, Derwie, what was the good of blowing himself up,” said Clary, with wondering round eyes. “Don’t you see?” cried Derwie, impatiently; “why, to destroy the powder and things, to be sure, that they might not have it to fire at us.” “I’d have poured water all on the powder, if it had been me, and spoiled it without hurting any one,” said the prudent Willie. “As if he had time to think about hurting any one!” said Derwie--“as if he didn’t just _do_ it--the first thought that came into his head.” “Oh, Derwent!” cried Clary again, “if they were all--every one--ten thousand thousand, standing up before one big gun, and papa would only take hold of my hand, I would fire it off!” “Aunty says we should forgive,” said Miss Polly’s gentle Di, in a low voice; “’tis dreadful to be killed, but it would be worse to kill somebody else.” “I don’t think so at all,” cried Clary, “I would kill them every one if I could--every one that did such horrid, cruel, wicked things. I hope Bertie will kill ever so many--hundreds! Don’t you hope so, Derwie? I would if I were him.” This sanguinary speech was interrupted by an arrival of nurses and attendants, and Clary, quite beautiful in her childish fury, went off to make a captivating toilette for the early childs’ dinner, where everybody was to appear in gala costume, to do honor to the birthday hero. The elder Clara, the child’s mother, had been standing with me in one end of the great nursery, listening to this discussion. She turned round with a laugh when the party had dispersed.