Who, of all people in the world, should be the children’s primest favourite and slave but General St. George? His heart is in the nursery, and there he spends hours every day. He “keeps shop” with them, he plays at soldiers with them, he is their horse, their roaring lion, their wild man of the woods. It is certainly amusing to see the old warrior, whose very name was once a word of terror among the lawless hill-tribes of the far East see him led about by one boy by means of a piece of string tied round his arm, and while another youthful scapegrace deafens you with the noise of a drum, to watch him imitate, with dangling paws, the uncouth gracefulness of a dancing bear. There can be no doubt on one point—that the old soldier enjoys himself quite as much as the children do. After his year’s imprisonment was at an end—to which mitigated punishment Janvard was condemned, in consideration of his having acted as witness for the Crown—he and his sister went over to Switzerland, and opened an hotel there at one of the chief centres of tourist travel. There, not long ago, he was encountered by Lionel. Smirking, bowing, and rubbing his hands, Janvard went up to him, with a request that Monsieur Dering would do him the honour of stopping at his hotel. But Lionel would have nothing to do with him, and when Janvard could be made to comprehend this, his face became a study of mortification and surprise. His feelings, such as they were, were evidently hurt. He never could be made to understand why Monsieur Dering had refused so positively to take up his quarters at the Lion d’Or. In a world that is full of permutation and change, there are happily a few things that change not. One of these is the friendship between Lionel and Tom, which neither time nor absence, nor the growth of other interests has power to alter in the least. When they both happen to be in Midlandshire at the same time, a week never passes without their seeing more or less of each other, and between their wives there is almost as firm a friendship as there is between themselves. Four people more united, more happy in each other’s society, it would be impossible to find. It was only last summer, during the long spell of hot weather, that Edith and Jane, with their youngsters, went over to Gatehouse Farm together, for the sake of the fresh sea breezes that seem to blow perpetually round the old house. They were sitting one day on the broad yellow sands, idling through the glowing afternoon, with their embroidery and a novel, when one of Jane’s little girls happened to fall and hurt her finger. She began to cry, and Edith’s little boy was by her side in a moment. “Don’t cry,” he said, as he stooped and kissed her. “I will marry you when I grow to be a big man.” The little girl’s tears at once ceased to flow. The two ladies looked up. Their eyes met, and they both smiled. “Such a thing is by no means improbable,” said Edith.