Nuttie had a beautiful coloured photograph of her mother, finished like a miniature, which had been taken at Nice, in the time of Alice Egremont's most complete and matured beauty. She had taught Alwyn to kiss and greet it every evening before his prayers, and such a kiss was his reward when he had shown any special act of goodness, for which, as she told him, 'mother would have been pleased with her little son.' Such another boon was his one Sunday evening at Biarritz, when she found that while she was shut up at dinner with her father he had voluntarily gone to church with nurse instead of playing on the beach with some other English children. 'It was all very long and tiresome,' he said, when asked if he liked it. 'Then why did you go, old man? There was no need to drag you there,' said his father. 'She didn't drag me,' said the boy; 'I walked.' 'You need not have walked then, Master Dignity.' 'Poor nursie couldn't go without me,' said Alwyn, 'and sister says there's a blessing on those that go.' 'A blessing? eh! and what idea does that little head entertain of a blessing?' said Mr. Egremont. Alwyn lifted his soft brown eyes reverently and said, 'It is something good,' speaking, as he always did, in a baby lisp inimitable here. 'Well?' 'And it comes from God.' 'Well, what is it? Can you see it?' 'No'--he looked in perplexity towards Nuttie, who was in agony all the time, lest there should be a scoff that might remain in the child's mind. 'Never mind sister. Can you feel it?' 'Yes;' and the little face lighted with such a reality that the incipient mockery turned into wonder on the next question. 'And how does it feel?' 'Oh, so nice! It makes Wynnie glad here,' and he spread his hands over his breast; and gave a little caper like a kid for very gladness. 'There!' said Mr. Egremont, leaning back fairly conquered. 'Any one might envy Wynnie! Goodnight, my boy, blessing and all. I wonder if one felt like that when one was a little shaver,' he pursued, as Alwyn went off to his bed. 'I think I did sometimes,' said Nuttie, 'but I never was half as good as Wynnie!' 'What?' exclaimed her father. 'You! bred up among the saints.' 'Ah! but I hadn't the same nature. I never was like--_her_.' 'Well--'tis very pretty now, and I don't know how we could stand a young Turk, but you mustn't make a girl of him.' 'There's no fear of that,' said Nuttie. 'He is full of spirit. That old bathing woman calls him "un vrai petit diable d'Anglais," he is so venturous.'