Miss Primrose, mopping and mowing, and garrulously inarticulate, took the fuming gentleman into the parlour. But he could get nothing out of her further than disjointed murmurs about the need for cooling draughts, and the child's being rather headstrong, and a possible touch of the sun. It was clear that she was scared out of her wits, and, moreover, there was something she wished to conceal. Master Ambrose, from his experience on the Bench, soon realized that this was a type of witness upon whom it was useless to waste his time; so he said sternly, "You are evidently unable to talk sense yourself, but perhaps some of your pupils possess that useful accomplishment. But I warn you if ... if anything happens to my daughter it is you that will be held responsible. And now, send ... let me see ... send me down Prunella Chanticleer, she's always been a sensible girl with a head on her shoulders. She'll be able to tell me what exactly is the matter with Moonlove--which is more than you seem able to do." Miss Primrose, now almost gibbering with terror, stammered out something about "study hours," and "regularity being so desirable," and "dear Prunella's having been a little out of sorts herself recently." But Master Ambrose repeated in a voice of thunder, "Send me Prunella Chanticleer, at once." And standing there, stern and square, he was a rather formidable figure. So Miss Primrose could only gibber and blink her acquiescence and promise him that "dear Prunella" should instantly be sent to him. When she had left him, Master Ambrose paced impatiently up and down, frowning heavily, and occasionally shaking his head. Then he stood stock-still, in deep thought. Absently, he picked up from the work-table a canvas shoe, in process of being embroidered with wools of various brilliant shades. At first, he stared at it with unseeing eyes. Then, the surface of his mind began to take stock of the object. Its half finished design consisted of what looked like wild strawberries, only the berries were purple instead of red. It was certainly very well done. There was no doubt but that Miss Primrose was a most accomplished needle-woman. "But what's the good of needlework? It doesn't teach one common sense," he muttered impatiently. "And how like a woman!" he added with a contemptuous little snort, "Aren't red strawberries good enough for her? Trying to improve on nature with her stupid fancies and her purple strawberries!" But he was in no mood for wasting his time and attention on a half-embroidered slipper, and tossing it impatiently away he was about to march out of the room and call loudly for Prunella Chanticleer, when the door opened and in she came. Had a stranger wanted to see an upper class maiden of Lud-in-the-Mist, he would have found a typical specimen in Prunella Chanticleer.