When at last the train came in and the boys, brown and jolly and full of rejoicing at getting home, jumped on to the platform, and the first exciting greetings had passed, Jane-Anne suddenly flung her arms round Edmund’s neck and burst into tears upon his shoulder. Edmund looked across the weeping damsel at his guardian in comical dismay. "I say," he exclaimed. "If she does this when she meets me, whatever will she do when we go away?" "I beg your pardon, Master Edmund," sobbed Jane-Anne, hastily withdrawing her arms, "but we have wanted it so, and now it’s come." "Well, that’s nothing to cry for," Montagu said, patting her back consolingly. "Cheer up." Jane-Anne dried her eyes, and the four went home in a cab laden with luggage. The next few days drove Mrs. Dew almost to desperation. It was impossible to make Jane-Anne "keep herself to herself," as that good woman considered decorous and desirable. Wherever the young gentlemen were, there was Jane-Anne, and it wasn’t altogether her own fault. They sought her out. She fielded at impromptu cricket matches, and discussed high subjects with Montagu. She proudly displayed her knowledge of the Greek alphabet, and assisted to stick in stamps in a long-neglected album. She even confided to the boys her misfortune with the "Magnolia Bloom," nor was she wholly crushed by their scorn for her silliness. _Apropos_ of this, one day, she said: "I wouldn’t mind so much being brown if only I had curly hair." "The Greeks always had curly hair," Montagu announced authoritatively. "I can’t think why you’ve been left out, ’ribbed and rippled like the wet sea-sand,’" he quoted. "I wonder," Edmund remarked, with a gravity that would have warned a wiser person, "that you never wash it in beer, then it would curl like anything." "_Would_ it?" exclaimed Jane-Anne, in great excitement. "Is that why yours is so curly?" Edmund winked at Montagu, who grinned appreciatively. "Of course it is," he cried; "all our chaps wash their heads in beer every Saturday, that’s why we’ve all got such ripping hair. Look at it." And Edmund thrust his head under Jane-Anne’s nose. She ran her hand gently over the short, fair hair that was indeed "ribbed and rippled like the wet sea-sand," then she sniffed delicately, remarking: "I wonder it doesn’t smell of it." "Oh, the smell soon goes off," Edmund answered airily. "Why don’t you do it?" she asked Montagu. "Your hair’s as straight as mine." "He’s too slack," Edmund remarked. "Oh, I can’t be bothered," Montagu said carelessly; "I don’t want curly hair. If I did I should wash it in beer." At that moment Mr. Wycherly called the boys to go out with him, and they rushed off leaving Jane-Anne to digest this seemingly simple specific for curly hair. Reflection unfollowed by action was impossible to Jane-Anne.