“And what did you do with Miss Heriton the while? Let her stand shivering on the bank to watch your performances?” “I should rather think not!” cried Walter, looking very indignant. “She skated with us, or else we pushed her in the sleigh the gardener helped us make.” Mr. Aylwinne gave an approving nod, and Florence went away to take off her wrappings. When she came back, the boys were still talking, for they had much to tell about what they had done and learned since he had been away. “But you’ll not leave Orwell Court again, will you?” she heard Fred inquire. “I think not. I am tired of being a wanderer, my boy.” “It’s very comfortable here,” said Walter, surveying the bright fire with a meditative air. “You think so because Mrs. Wilson pampers your appetites, and spoils you,” his guardian retorted, amused at the boy’s earnestness. Walter reddened. “No, it’s not that, I’m sure; for I don’t think half so much of her cakes and pies as Fred does. It’s because--because----Well, I don’t hardly know why, except”--and, catching sight of Florence, who had just come, he slid his fingers into hers--“except it’s because you are here, Donna.” His guardian frowned. “Does Miss Heriton permit you to call her by a stupid nickname?” Walter was silent, but Fred ventured to stand up for his pet appellation. “I don’t think it’s a stupid one, Mr. Aylwinne. It means a lady, and I’m sure Miss Heriton’s one.” “The more reason, my boy, why you should call her by her own name.” “But it sounds so long and stiff, and we like the other best,” pouted Fred. “And she don’t mind it a bit, for she says so.” “Before such very conclusive arguments my own opinion must give way,” retorted his guardian dryly. “But take care that you never for a moment forget the respect due to Miss Heriton, unless you would incur my serious displeasure.” The sternness with which this speech was concluded awed the sensitive boys; and nothing was said until Fred seized an opportunity of whispering in Florence’s ear: “You do not think us rude, do you?” “Certainly not! I am sure you love me too well to treat me discourteously.” “But how crossly he spoke!” “Hush, dear boy!” said Florence, who saw by the glance of that gentleman’s penetrating eye that he overheard what was passing. “Mr. Aylwinne is tired to-night. To-morrow he will understand you better.”