It was the daily custom for both the little boys to visit Mr. Wycherly for a few minutes after breakfast, when biscuits were doled out and there was much cheery good-fellowship. Mr. Wycherly himself made periodical visits to Edinburgh to purchase these biscuits, which were adorned with pink and white sugar, and were of a delectable flavour. Once the biscuits were consumed—they had three each—Montagu settled down to his lessons, and Edmund, ever unwillingly, departed with Robina. Through the open window that morning there floated an imperative baby voice. "See man," it insisted, "me go and see man." Mr. Wycherly looked out and Edmund looked up. He stretched out his fat arms, balancing himself first on one foot and then on the other, as though poised for flight, while in the thrush-like tones that were always irresistible to Mr. Wycherly he gave his usual cry of "Uppie! Uppie! _deah_ man." When Edmund called him "deah man" there was nothing on earth that Mr. Wycherly could withhold. "Bring Edmund up, Montagu," he said, leaning out of the window. "We’ll have a holiday to-day, it’s a kind of birthday. Just a year since you came." But the gentle voice of Miss Esperance interposed. "Edmund must say ’Please, Mr. Wycherly,’ or ’please, sir,’ then he can go up." "See man, me go and see man," Edmund persisted, absolutely ignoring his aunt’s admonition and jumping up and down as though he could reach Mr. Wycherly that way. "No, Edmund," Miss Esperance said firmly; "you _must_ say, ’Please, Mr. Wycherly." Edmund looked at his aunt and his round chubby face expressed the utmost defiance. "I _sall_ say man, and I will go to man," he announced loudly and distinctly, "he’s my man, and I ’ove him—I don’t ’ove _you_," he added emphatically. "Edmund, my son, come here." There was no resisting the resolution in that very gentle voice. Miss Esperance seated herself on the garden seat under Mr. Wycherly’s window, and Edmund came at her bidding, to stand in front of her, square and sturdy and rebellious. Mr. Wycherly had withdrawn from the window when Miss Esperance first began her expostulation with Edmund. Now it struck him as rather shabby to leave her to wrestle with that young sinner alone over a matter which certainly referred to himself; so he hastened downstairs and joined her in the garden. On his appearance Edmund began his dance again, and his petition of "Uppie! Uppie!" Mr. Wycherly went and sat on the seat beside Miss Esperance, trying hard to look stern and judicial, and failing signally, while the chubby culprit made ineffectual attempts to climb upon his knee. "Edmund must say ’Please, Mr. Wycherly,’ or ’Please, sir,’" Miss Esperance repeated. "Peese, Mittah Chahley," echoed Edmund in tones that would have melted a heart of stone. Now if "man" was a disrespectful and familiar mode of address, "Chahlee" seemed a singularly inappropriate pseudonym for Mr. Wycherly. Even Montagu giggled.