"You will find it quite useless to struggle, Lisbeth," I warned. "Your only course is to remember that he is a growing boy." "And you are a brute!" she cried. "Undoubtedly," I answered, bending my head nearer her petulant lips. "But think of the Imp in bed, lying there, sleepless, tealess, and growing all the while as fast as he can." Lisbeth surrendered, of course, but my triumph was greatly tempered with disappointment. "You will then forgive him for the 'ambushes' and cherish him with much tea?" I stipulated, winking away a tress of hair that tickled most provokingly. "Yes," said Lisbeth. "And no bed until the usual hour?" "No," she answered, quite subdued; "and now please do put me down." So I sighed and perforce obeyed. She stood for a moment patting her rebellious hair into order with deft, white fingers, looking up at me meanwhile with a laugh in her eyes that seemed almost a challenge. I took a hasty step toward her, but as I did so the Imp hove into view, and the opportunity was lost. "Hallo, Auntie Lisbeth!" he exclaimed, eyeing her wonderingly; then his glance wandered round as if in quest of something. "How did she do it, Uncle Dick?" he inquired. "Do what, my Imp?" "Why, get out of the tree?" I smiled and looked at Lisbeth. "Did she climb down?" "No," said I, shaking my head. "Did she--jump down?" "No, she didn't jump down, my Imp." "Well, did she--did she fly down?" "No, nor fly down--she just came down." "Yes, but how did she--" "Reginald," said Lisbeth, "run and tell the maids to bring tea out here--for three." "Three?" echoed the Imp. "But Dorothy has gone out to tea, you know--is Uncle Dick going to--" "To be sure, Imp," I nodded. "Oh, that is fine--hurrah, Little-John!" he cried, and darted off to ward the house. "And you, Lisbeth?" I said, imprisoning her hands, "are you glad also?" Lisbeth did not speak, yet I was satisfied nevertheless. III THE DESPERADOES Fane Court stands bowered in trees, with a wide stretch of the greenest of green lawns sloping down to the river stairs. They are quaint old stairs, with a marble rail and carved balusters, worn and crumbling, yet whose decay is half hid by the kindly green of lichens and mosses; stairs indeed for an idle fellow to dream over on a hot summer's afternoon--and they were, moreover, a favourite haunt of Lisbeth. It was here that I had moored my boat, therefore, and now lay back, pipe in mouth and with a cushion beneath my head, in that blissful state between sleeping and waking. Now, as I lay, from the blue wreaths of my pipe I wove me fair fancies: