"You have not even waked him. He has the special gift of--was it Wellington or Napoleon?--that of being able to sleep through the heaviest battle." "Hallo!" said Thomas. "Good old boy! What's he been learning to-day?" he added, with godfatherly interest. "We're showing him life to-day. He has come to see Simpson play golf." "Doesn't he ever sit up?" asked Simpson, looking at him with interest. "I don't see how he's going to see anything if he's always on his back. Unless it were something in the air." "Don't you ever get the ball in the air?" said Myra innocently. "What will his Uncle Samuel show him if he does sit up?" I asked. "Let's decide first if it's going to be anything worth watching. Which hole are you for? The third?" "The eighth. My last shot had a bit of a slice." "A slice! It had about the whole joint. I doubt," I said to Myra, "if we shall do much good here; let's push on." But Myra had put down the hood and taken some of the clothes off Peter. Peter stirred slightly. He seemed to know that something was going on. Then suddenly he woke up, just in time to see Simpson miss the ball completely. Instantly he gave a cry. "Now you've done it," said Myra. "He's got to go in. And I'm afraid he'll go away with quite a wrong idea of the game." But I was not thinking of the baby. Although I am to be his uncle by marriage I had forgotten him. "If that's about Simpson's form to-day," I said to Myra, "you and I could still take them on and beat them." Myra looked up eagerly. "What about Peter?" she asked; but she didn't ask it very firmly. "We promised Dahlia to take him in directly he cried," I said. "She'd be very upset if she thought she couldn't trust us. And we've got to go in for our clubs, anyway," I added. Peter was sleeping peacefully again, but a promise is a promise. After all, we had done a good deal for his education that morning. We had shown him human nature at work, and the position of golf in the universe. "We'll meet you on the first tee," said Myra to Thomas. VI.--HE SLEEPS "It's sad to think that to-morrow we shall be in London," said Simpson, with a sigh. "Rotten," agreed Thomas, and took another peach. There was a moment's silence. "We shall miss you," I said, after careful thought. I waited in vain for Dahlia to say something, and then added, "You must both come again next year." "Thank you very much." "Not at all." I hate these awkward pauses. If my host or hostess doesn't do anything to smooth them over, I always dash in. "It's been delightful to have you," I went on. "Are you sure you can't stay till Wednesday?" "I'm so sorry," said Dahlia, "but you took me by surprise. I had simply no idea. Are you really going?" "I'm afraid so." "Are _you_ really staying?" said Archie to me. "Help!" "What about Peter?" asked Myra. "Isn't he too young to be taken from his godfathers?"