Not that Allen would leave an empty house behind him. Lying at full length on the carpet, absorbed in a book, was Robert, a boy on whom the same capacious brow as Janet’s sat better than on the feminine creature. He was reading on, undisturbed by the pranks of three younger children, John Lucas, a lithe, wiry, restless elf of nine, with a brown face and black curly head, and Armine and Barbara, young persons of seven and six, on whom nature had been more beneficent in the matter of looks, for though brown was their prevailing complexion, both had well-moulded, childish features, and really fine eyes. The hubbub of voices, as they tumbled and rushed about the window and balcony, was the regular accompaniment of dinner, though on the first plaintive tone from the little girl, the mother interrupted a “Well, but papa,” from Janet, with “Babie, Babie.” “It’s Jock, Mother Carey! He _will_ come into Fairyland too soon.” “What’s the last news from Fairyland, Babie?” asked the father as the little one ran up to him. “I want to be Queen Mab, papa, but Armine wants to be Perseus with the Gorgon’s head, and Jock is the dragon; but the dragon will come before we’ve put Polly upon the rock.” “What! is Polly Andromeda--?” as a grey parrot’s stand was being transferred from the balcony. “Yes, papa,” called out Armine. “You see she’s chained, and Bobus won’t play, and Babie will be Queen Mab--” “I suppose,” said the mother, “that it is not harder to bring Queen Mab in with Perseus than Oberon with Theseus and Hippolyta--” “You would have us infer,” said the Doctor with grave humour, “that your children are at their present growth in the Elizabethan age of culture--” But again began a “Well, but papa!” but, he exclaimed, “Do look at that boy--Well walloped, dragon!” as Jock with preternatural contortions, rolled, kicked and tumbled himself with extended jaws to the rock, alias stand, to which Polly was chained, she remarking in a hoarse, low whisper, “Naughty boy--” “Well moaned, Andromeda!” “But papa,” persisted Janet, “when Oliver Cromwell--” “Oh! look at the Gorgon!” cried the mother, as the battered head of an ancient doll was displayed over his shoulder by Perseus, decorated with two enormous snakes, one made of stamps, and the other a spiral of whalebone shavings out of a box. The monster immediately tumbled over, twisted, kicked, and wriggled so that the scandalised Perseus exclaimed: “But Jock--monster, I mean--you’re turned into stone--” “It’s convulsions,” replied the monster, gasping frightfully, while redoubling his contortions, though Queen Mab observed in the most admonitory tone, touching him at the same time with her wand, “Don’t you know, Skipjack, that’s the reason you don’t grow--” “Eh! What’s the new theory! Who says so, Babie?” came from the bottom of the table. “Nurse says so, papa,” answered Allen; “I heard her telling Jock yesterday that he would never be any taller till he stood still and gave himself time.”