I cried and struggled. I had a dim sense of what had happened, mixed with an idea that these men were separating me from my father. I could not be pacified till Mr. Abercrombie held out his arms for me. He was more like a woman, and he was crying as well as I. I went to him and buried my sobs on his shoulder. Mr. George (as I had long called him, from finding his surname hard to utter) carried me into the passage and walked up and down, comforting me. "Is Papa really dead?" I at length found voice to ask. "Yes, Margery dear. I'm so sorry." "Will he go to Abraham's bosom, Mr. George?" "Will he go _where_, Margery?" "To Abraham's bosom, you know, where the poor beggar went that's lying on the steps in my Sunday picture-book, playing with those dear old dogs." Mr. Abercrombie's knowledge of Holy Scripture was, I fear, limited. Possibly my remarks recalled some childish remembrance similar to my own. He said, "Oh yes, to be sure. Yes, dear." "Do you think the dogs went with the poor beggar?" I asked. "Do you think the angels took them too?" "I don't know," said Mr. George. "I hope they did." There was a pause, and then I asked, in awe-struck tones, "Will the angels fetch Papa, do you think?" Mr. George had evidently decided to follow my theological lead, and he replied, "Yes, Margery dear." "Shall you see them?" I asked. "No, no, Margery. I'm not good enough to see angels." "_I_ think you're very good," said I. "And please be good, Mr. George, and then the angels will fetch you, and perhaps me, and Mamma, and perhaps Ayah, and perhaps Bustle, and perhaps Clive." Bustle was Mr. Abercrombie's dog, and Clive was a mastiff, the dog of the regiment, and a personal friend of mine. "Very well, Margery dear. And now you must be good too, and you must let me take you to bed, for it's morning now, and I have had no sleep at all." "Is it to-morrow now?" I asked; "because, if it's to-morrow, it's my birthday." And I began to cry afresh, because Papa had promised that I should dine with him, and had promised me a present also. "I'll give you a birthday present," said my long-suffering friend; and he began to unfasten a locket that hung at his watch-chain. It was of Indian gold, with forget-me-nots in turquoise stones upon it. He opened it and pulled out a photograph, which he tore to bits, and then trampled underfoot. "There, Margery, there's a locket for you; you can throw it into the fire, or do anything you like with it. And I wish you many happy returns of the day." And he finally fastened it round my neck with his Trichinopoli watch-chain, leaving his watch loose in his waistcoat-pocket. The locket and chain pleased me, and I suffered him to carry me to bed. Then, as he was parting from me, I thought of my father again, and asked: "Do you think the angels have fetched Papa _now_, Mr. George?" "I think they have, Margery." Whereupon I cried myself to sleep. And this was my sixth birthday. CHAPTER III.