Lucian examined this strange creature with care. He was relieved to find that she was by no means beautiful. He saw a strong-limbed, active-looking young damsel, rather older and rather taller than himself, whose face was odd, rather than pretty, and chiefly remarkable for a prodigality of freckles and a healthy tan. Her nose was pugnacious and inclined to be of the snub order; her hair sandy and anything but tidy; there was nothing beautiful in her face but a pair of brown eyes of a singularly clear and honest sort. As for her attire, it was not in that order which an exacting governess might have required: she wore a blue serge frock in which she had evidently been climbing trees or scrambling through hedgerows, a battered straw hat wherein she or somebody had stuck the long feathers from a cock’s tail; there was a rent in one of her stockings, and her stout shoes looked as if she had tramped through several ploughed fields in them. All over and round her glowed a sort of aureole of rude and vigorous health, of animal spirits, and of a love of mischief--the youthful philosopher confronting her recognised a new influence and a new nature. ‘Yes,’ she said demurely, ‘I’m Sprats, and you’ve a cheek to call me so--who gave you leave, I’d like to know? What would you think if I told you that you’d look nice if you had a barrel-organ and a monkey on it? Ha! ha! had him there, hadn’t I, Boggles? Well, do you know where I am going, monkey-boy?’ Lucian sighed resignedly. ‘No,’ he answered. ‘Going to fetch you,’ she said. ‘You haven’t been to your lessons for two days, and you’re to go this instant minute.’ ‘I don’t think I want any lessons to-day,’ replied Lucian. ‘Hear him!’ she said, making a grimace. ‘What do they do with little boys who won’t go to school, Boggles--eh?’ If Lucian had known more of a world with which he had never, poor child, had much opportunity of making acquaintance, he would have seen that Sprats was meditating mischief. Her eyes began to glitter: she smiled demurely. ‘Are you coming peaceably?’ she asked. ‘But I’m not coming at all,’ replied Lucian. ‘Aren’t you, though? We’ll soon settle that, won’t we, Boggles?’ she exclaimed. ‘Now then, monkey--off you go!’ She was on him with a rush before he knew what was about to happen, and had lifted him off his feet and swung him on to her shoulder ere he could escape her. Lucian expostulated and beseeched; Sprats, shouting and laughing, made for a gap in the hedgerow; Boggles, hugely delighted, following in the wake. At the gap a battle royal ensued--Lucian fighting to free himself, the girl clinging on to him with all the strength of her vigorous young arms. ‘Let me go, I say!’ cried Lucian. ‘Let me down!’ ‘You’d best to go quiet and peaceable, Master Lucian,’ counselled Boggles. ‘Miss Millie ain’t one to be denied of anything.’ ‘But I won’t be carried!’ shouted Lucian, half mad with rage. ‘I won’t....’