After some talk of the sort you don't listen to, in which bends and lioncels and gules and things played a promising part, Albert's uncle said that Mr. Turnbull had told him something about that coat-of-arms being carved on a bridge somewhere in Cambridgeshire, and again the conversation wandered into things like Albert's uncle had talked about to the Maidstone Antiquarian Society the day they came over to see his old house in the country and we arranged the time-honoured Roman remains for them to dig up. So, hearing the words king-post and mullion and moulding and underpin, Oswald said might we go; and we went, and took our dessert with us and had it in our own common-room, where you can roast chestnuts with a free heart and never mind what your fingers get like. When first we knew Daisy we used to call her the White Mouse, and her brother had all the appearance of being one too, but you know how untruthful appearances are, or else it was that we taught him happier things, for he certainly turned out quite different in the end; and she was not a bad sort of kid, though we never could quite cure her of wanting to be "ladylike"--that is the beastliest word there is, I think, and Albert's uncle says so, too. He says if a girl can't be a lady it's not worth while to be only like one--she'd better let it alone and be a free and happy bounder. But all this is not what I was going to say, only the author does think of so many things besides the story, and sometimes he puts them in. This is the case with Thackeray and the Religious Tract Society and other authors, as well as Mrs. Humphrey Ward. Only I don't suppose you have ever heard of her, though she writes books that some people like very much. But perhaps they are her friends. I did not like the one I read about the Baronet. It was on a wet Sunday at the seaside, and nothing else in the house but Bradshaw and "Elsie; or like a----" or I shouldn't have. But what really happened to us before Christmas is strictly the following narrative. "I say," remarked Denny, when he had burned his fingers with a chestnut that turned out a bad one after all--and such is life--and he had finished sucking his fingers and getting rid of the chestnut, "about these antiquaries?" "Well, what about them?" said Oswald. He always tries to be gentle and kind to Denny, because he knows he helped to make a man of the young Mouse. "I shouldn't think," said Denny, "that it was so very difficult to be one." "I don't know," said Dicky. "You have to read very dull books and an awful lot of them, and remember what you read, what's more." "I don't think so," said Alice. "That girl who came with the antiquities--the one Albert's uncle said was upholstered in red plush like furniture--_she_ hadn't read anything, you bet." Dora said, "You ought not to bet, especially on Sunday," and Alice altered it to "You may be sure."