Bob believed she would. It is so easy for the world's heroines to remain calm against attack. My Mary was made of commoner stuff--the wretched, baser clay of which not I, but my neighbours, not you, but your acquaintances, are made. Bob believed she would. He cried, “Send her away! Why the devil don't you send her away?”; gathered his skirts; fled for the safety of a locked door. Mrs. Chater believed she would. Mrs. Chater plunged across the hall; stood, an impassable and panting guardian, upon the lowermost step. Her outstretched arm stayed Mary; a voice announced, “The cab'm.” My Mary stood a moment; little fists clenched, flashing eyes; blinked against the premonition of a rush of tears; then, as they came, turned for the door. “Go!” trumpeted Mrs. Chater. “Go!” Mary was upon the mat when Angela and David made a little rush; caught her skirts. The alarming scenes had hurtled in sequence too rapid and too violent to be by the children understood. But a scrap here and a scrap there they had caught, retained, correctly interpreted; and the whole, though it supplied no reason, told clearly that their adored Mary was going from them. “You're coming back soon, aren't you?” David cried. “You're not going away, are you, Miss Humf'ay?” implored Angela. Mrs. Chater shrilled: “Children, come away. Come here at once.” Mary dropped one knee upon the mat; caught her arms about the children. She pressed a cool face against each side her wet and burning countenance, gave kisses, and upon the added stress of this new emotion choked: “Good-bye, little ducklings!” “Oh, darling, _darling_ Miss Humf'ay, we _will_ be good if you'll stay!” They felt this was the desperate threat that so often followed their misdemeanours put into action. She held them, hugging them. “It isn't that. You have been good.” “Then you said you would stay for ever and ever if we were good.” “Not ever and ever; I said--I said perhaps a fairy prince would come to take me. Didn't I?” This was the romance that forbade tears. But David had doubts. He regarded the hansom at the door: “That's a cab, not a carriage. Fairy princes don't come in cabs.” “The prince is waiting. Kiss me, darling Davie. Angie, dear, dear Angle, kiss me.” She rose. Mrs. Chater had come from the stairs, now laid hands upon the small people and dragged them back from the pretty figure about which they clung. They screamed, “Let me go!” David roared; dropped prone upon the mat to kick and howl: “Take away your _hand_, mother!” Angela gasped: “Oh, comeback, comeback, darling Miss Humf'ay!” With a glare of defiance into Mrs. Chater's stormy eyes, my Mary stooped over David. “David!” The calm ring of the tones he had learned to obey checked his clamour, his plunging kicks. She stooped; kissed him. “Be good as gold,” she commanded. “Promise.” “Good as gold--yes--p'omise,” David choked. Angela was given, and gave, the magic formula. Mary stepped back. Susan slammed the door.