“Sir, sir,” said Gabriel, running towards them, “pray do come and see the monument we have made to Sir John Eliot.” The two gentlemen praised the work. “And what do you know of Sir John?” said Mr. Unett, with a smile. “I know how brave he was,” said Gabriel, “and that he died to save us from being made slaves.” “He heard Sir Robert reading the news-letter,” said Dr. Harford, putting his hand tenderly on Gabriel’s head. “Somehow a child always contrives to go straight to the mark and grasp the essential point of a tale.” “Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings,” murmured Frank Unett, glancing from the eager-faced children to the snow effigy--the only monument brave John Eliot was like to have in the land for which he died. “But what’s amiss with your arm, lad?” “Sir Robert’s dog bit it, but my father has cured it again,” said Gabriel, sturdily. “It was my fault, father,” said Hilary; “we were quarrelling.” “Eh? What was the disputed point? You two are for ever arguing.” “Yet their greatest punishment is to be apart,” said Dr. Harford, with his genial laugh. “I said I wouldn’t be Gabriel’s wife,” said Hilary, hanging her head. “But we’ve made it up again, and I have given him my promise.” “Oh, you have, have you?” said her father, laughing; “and without so much as a ‘by your leave’ to me? Well, I could wish you no better lot. He will make a rare good husband, an I am not much mistaken.” “Come, Frank, you ought not to stand still this cold day,” said the doctor; “’tis time you were in the house again.” They moved on, the invalid still smiling over his daughter’s words. “The little minx!” he continued. “How innocently she said it. I should be heartily glad should their childish notion be carried out later on.” “Stranger things have happened, Frank,” said the doctor, with a smile; “and I should be glad to have pretty Hilary for a daughter-in-law.” “I wonder what she will grow up?” said the invalid. “Well,” with a sigh, “I shall not be here to see.” “Look, here comes that bustling housekeeper of yours,” said the doctor, not sorry to turn the conversation. “Well, Mrs. Durdle, are you come to upbraid the physician for keeping your master out of doors?” A stout, buxom, cheery-looking woman came hurrying towards them through the wicket-gate which led into the adjoining garden. “Why, no, sir,” she said, breathlessly, “though if I may make bold to say so, I think master would be a deal better by the hearth than out in the sun this December day; but the Christmas puddings, sir, are ready for stirring, and I was coming to bid the children take their turn, or they will have no luck at all next year.” “Heathen superstition, Mrs. Durdle,” said the doctor, with a smile. “But make not over-much of the bite Gabriel hath received, for in this case, truly, least said soonest mended. Tell him no tales about those that die of a dog-bite.” The housekeeper promised and went in search of the children.