He was ill a week. When he was better, not much was said. My Father, who is the justest man in England, said the boy had been punished enough--and so he had, for he missed going to the pantomime, and to "Shock-Headed Peter" at the Garrick Theatre, which is far and away the best play that ever was done, and quite different from any other acting I ever saw. They are exactly like real boys; I think they must have been reading about us. And he had to take a lot of the filthiest medicine I ever tasted. I wonder if Father told the doctor to make it nasty on purpose? A woman would have directly, but gentlemen are not generally so sly. Any way, you live and learn. None of us would now ever consent to be a stowaway, no matter who wanted us to, and I don't think H.O.'s very likely to do it again. The only _meant_ punishment he had was seeing the clown's dress burnt before his eyes by Father. He had bought it all with his own saved-up money, red trimmings and all. Of course, when he got well we soon taught him not to say again that it was any of our faults. As he owned himself, he _is_ our little brother, and we are not going to stand that kind of cheek from _him_. _THE CONSCIENCE-PUDDING_ IT was Christmas, nearly a year after Mother died. I cannot write about Mother--but I will just say one thing. If she had only been away for a little while, and not for always, we shouldn't have been so keen on having a Christmas. I didn't understand this then, but I am much older now, and I think it was just because everything was so different and horrid we felt we _must_ do something; and perhaps we were not particular enough _what_. Things make you much more unhappy when you loaf about than when you are doing events. Father had to go away just about Christmas. He had heard that his wicked partner, who ran away with his money, was in France, and he thought he could catch him, but really he was in Spain, where catching criminals is never practised. We did not know this till afterwards. Before Father went away he took Dora and Oswald into his study, and said-- "I'm awfully sorry I've got to go away, but it is very serious business, and I must go. You'll be good while I'm away, kiddies, won't you?" We promised faithfully. Then he said-- "There are reasons--you wouldn't understand if I tried to tell you--but you can't have much of a Christmas this year. But I've told Matilda to make you a good plain pudding. Perhaps next Christmas will be brighter." (It was; for the next Christmas saw us the affluent nephews and nieces of an Indian uncle--but that is quite another story, as good old Kipling says.)