Leslie’s face flushed--real guns that could go off with peas were excellent and sane amusements even for an enchantress. By-and-by he forgot her profession, and began to order her about. They played contentedly for an hour, then the clock struck six. Leslie counted it. “Shortly after six, my poor dear boy, they will let you come home,” his Aunt Etta had said. He put down the general and pushed the table away; his lips quivered. “You’re--you’re almost nice,” he said. “I wonder you can break up a home.” “Oh, my dear, my dear!” cried Edith, but she did not offer to touch him; she only turned shining and appealing eyes to him. Her eyes were too much; they should not have been so kind when she was so wicked. “I shall never see the soldiers again,” he said mournfully. “But, Leslie, they are yours; I bought them for you,” she pleaded “Indeed, indeed, I bought them for you this morning.” “Lestranges don’t take bribes,” said Leslie coldly; still he looked at the general and the best gun--it was a very good gun. “But it isn’t a bribe,” explained the enchantress. “Won’t you even take the general and the gun--” Leslie’s chest heaved. He looked across the table at her. “Will you give up my father?” he asked. “If you’ll give him up I’ll take--I’ll take both the general and the gun.” “Oh, but, Leslie, I couldn’t--he’d be so unhappy--” “No, he wouldn’t,” said Leslie firmly. “He’d get used to it in time; there are lots of things he has--me and Aunt Etta, and a new cuckoo clock I gave him for his last birthday. Oh, give him up--give him up--!” The tears came suddenly now; all the controlled terrors, the pent-up agony, the puzzled situation, the fearful prospects, rushed to the top of the child’s mind: it was like the over-filling of a cup. He flung himself face downwards on the sofa, dragging the tablecloth after him and covering the carpet with defeated soldiers. Edith knelt beside him trying to soothe and comfort him, but his little clenched hands pushed her away. The general with his cocked hat and the best gun lay on her lap, and bitter tears fell on them--bitter, unavailing tears; and so Horace found them shortly after six. He carried his sobbing little boy away, and Edith sat and wept over the soldiers alone and uncomforted. “I wonder how she can have managed to upset him so,” said Etta; “but I thought this afternoon that she hardly looked as if she could manage a delicate highly-strung child. She has sent him into a really dangerous fit of crying.” As for Horace, he went to his study and smoked a strong cigar. He was puzzled and disappointed. Edith had been so certain she could win the little chap over, and the boy hadn’t cried while he was there. Edith must have done something stupid; she had been upset enough herself, poor girl; but he did not go back and comfort her--she must have done something stupid. VI