It was always a joy to Meg and Jan that whatever poor Fay might have left undone in the matter of disciplining her children, she had at least taught them to eat nicely. Little Fay's management of a spoon was a joy to watch. The dimpled baby hand was so deft, the turn of the plump wrist so sure and purposeful. She never spilled or slopped her food about. Its journey from bowl to little red mouth was calculated and assured. Both children had a horror of anything sticky, and would refuse jam unless it was "well covelled in a sangwidge." That very morning Jan and Meg exchanged congratulatory glances over their well-behaved charges, sitting side by side. Then, all at once, with a swift, sure movement, little Fay stretched up and deposited a spoonful of exceedingly hot porridge exactly on the top of her brother's head, with a smart tap. Tony's hair was always short, and had been cut on Saturday, and the hot mixture ran down into his eyes, which filled him with rage. He tried to get out of his high chair, exclaiming angrily, "Let me get at her to box her!" Jan held him down with one hand while she wiped away the offending mess with the other, and all the time Tony cried in _crescendo_, "Let me get at her!" Little Fay, quite unmoved, continued to eat her porridge with studied elegance, and in gently reproachful tones remarked, "Tony velly closs littoo boy." Jan and Meg, who wanted desperately to laugh, tried hard to look shocked, and Meg asked, "What on earth possessed you to do such a thing?" "Tony's head so shiny and smoove." Tony rubbed the shiny head ruefully. "Can't I do nuffin to her?" he demanded. "No," his sister answered firmly, "loo can't, 'cos I'm plitty littoo Fay." "Can't I plop some on _her_ head?" he persisted. "It certainly seems unfair," Jan said thoughtfully, "but I think you'd better not." "It _is_ unfair," Tony grumbled. Jan loosed his hands. "Now," she said, "you can do what you like." Little Fay leaned towards her brother, smiling her irresistible, dimpled, twinkling smile, and held out a spoonful of her porridge. "Deah littoo Tony," she cooed, "taste it." And Tony meekly accepted the peace-offering. "You haven't smacked her," Jan remarked. Tony sighed. "It's too late now--I don't feel like it any more." All the same he felt aggrieved as he set out to seek Earley in the kitchen garden. Earley was not to be found. He saw Mrs. Mumford already hanging kitchen cloths on a line in the orchard, but he felt no desire for Mrs. Mumford's society. Tony's tormented soul sought for something soothing. The garden was pleasant, but it wasn't enough. Ah! he'd got it! He'd go to the river; all by himself he'd go, and not tell anybody. He'd look over the bridge into that cool deep pool and perhaps that big fat trout would be swimming about. What was it he had heard Captain Middleton say last time he was down at Amber Guiting? "The Mayfly was up."