But Helen said: “She wouldn't go there. She'd take a little house, like Miss Dobell, and have tea-parties on Thursdays--somewhere near the Cathedral.” “No, she wouldn't!” said Jeremy excitedly. “How could she take a little house if she hadn't any money? She told me she hadn't, and no friends, nor nobody, and she cried like anything--” He paused for breath, then concluded: “So we've got to be good now, and learn sums, and not make her jump. Really and truly, we must.” “I always thought you were very silly to make so much noise,” said Helen in a superior fashion. “You and Mary--babies!” “We're not babies,” shouted Jeremy. “Yes, you are.” “No, we're not.” Miss Jones was no longer the subject of the conversation. That same day it happened that rumours were brought to Mrs. Cole through Rose, the housemaid, or some other medium for the first time, of Miss Jones's incapacity. That evening Jeremy was spending his last half-hour before bedtime in his mother's room happily in a corner with his toy village. He suddenly heard his mother say to Aunt Amy: “I'm afraid Miss Jones won't do. I thought she was managing the children, but now I hear that she can't keep order at all. I'm sorry--it's so difficult to get anyone.” Jeremy sprang up from the floor, startling the ladies, who had forgotten that he was there. “She's all right,” he cried. “Really she is, Mother. We're going to be as good as anything, really we are. You won't send her away, will you?” “My dear Jeremy,” his mother said, “I'd forgotten you were there. Rose says you don't do anything Miss Jones tells you.” “Rose is silly,” he answered. “She doesn't know anything about it. But you will keep her, won't you, Mother?” “I don't know--if she can't manage you--” “But she can manage us. We'll be good as anything, I promise. You will keep her, won't you, Mother?” “Really, Jeremy,” said Aunt Amy, “to bother your mother so! And it's nearly time you went to bed.” He brushed her aside. “You will keep her, Mother, won't you?” “It depends, dear,” said Mrs. Cole, laughing. “You see--” “No--we'll be bad with everyone else,” he cried. “We will, really--everyone else. And we'll be good with Miss Jones.” “Well, so long as you're good, dear,” she said. “I'd no idea you liked her so much.” “Oh, she's all right,” he said. “But it isn't that--” Then he stopped; he couldn't explain--especially with that idiot Aunt Amy there, who'd only laugh at him, or kiss him, or something else horrible. Afterwards, as he went slowly up to bed, he stopped for a moment in the dark passage thinking. The whole house was silent about him, only the clocks whispering. What a tiresome bother Aunt Amy was! How he wished that she were dead! And what a bore it would be being good now with Miss Jones. At the same time, the renewed consciousness of her personal drama most strangely moved him--her brother who rowed, her neuralgia, her lack of relations. Perhaps Aunt Amy also had an exciting history! Perhaps she also cried!