Michael wished the tower were not called Grogg’s Folly, and very soon Nancy and he, shouting and laughing, were running at full speed down the hill towards Cobble Place, while the stalks of the plantains whipped his bare legs and larks flew up in alarm before his advance. The time of his stay at Cobble Place was drawing to a close: the hour of his greatest adventure was near. It had been a visit of unspoiled enjoyment; and on his last night, Michael was allowed for a treat to stay up to supper, to sit at the round table rose-stained by the brooding lamp, while the rest of the room was a comfortable mystery in which the parlour-maid’s cap and apron flitted whitely to and fro. Nor did Michael go to bed immediately after supper, for he actually sat grandly in the drawing-room, one of a semicircle round the autumnal fire of logs crackling and leaping with blue flames. He sat silent, listening to the pitter-pat of Mrs. Carthew’s Patience and watching the halma board waiting for May to encounter Joan, while in a low voice Nancy read to him one of Fifty-two Stories of Adventure for Girls. Bed-time came at the end of the story and Michael was sad to say good night for the last time and sad to think, when he got into his ribboned bed, that to-morrow night he would be in Carlington Road among brass knobs and Venetian blinds and lamp-posts and sounds of London. Then came a great surprize that took away nearly all the regrets he felt at leaving Cobble Place, for Miss Carthew leaned over and whispered that she was coming to live at Sixty-four. “Oh!” Michael gasped. “With us—with Stella and me?” Miss Carthew nodded. “I say!” Michael whispered. “And will Stella have lessons when I’m going to school?” “Every morning,” said Miss Carthew. “I expect you’ll find her rather bad at lessons,” said Michael doubtfully. He was almost afraid that Miss Carthew might leave in despair at Stella’s ineptitude. “Lots of people are stupid at first,” said Miss Carthew. Michael blushed: he remembered a certain morning when capes and promontories got inextricably mixed in his mind and when Miss Carthew seemed to grow quite tired of trying to explain the difference. “Will you teach her the piano now?” he enquired. “Oh dear, no. I’m not clever enough to do that.” “But you teach me.” “That’s different. Stella will be a great pianist one day,” said Miss Carthew earnestly. “Will she?” asked Michael incredulously. “But I don’t like her to play a bit—not a bit.” “You will one day. Great musicians think she is wonderful.”