“You say all the wrong things.” She struggled to free herself. “You’re making me sad.” “D’you know what you’ll be when you grow up?” She ceased struggling; she was tremendously interested in herself. “What?” “A flirt.” “What is a flirt?” she asked earnestly. “A flirt’s a----” He puzzled to find words. “A flirt’s a very beautiful woman who makes every one love her especially, and loves nobody in particular herself.” She clapped her hands. “Oh, I hope I shall.” Outside her bedroom at parting she stopped laughing. “I _am_ fond of you, dear Teddy.” “Of course you are.” She pouted. “Oh, no, not of course. I’m not fond of everybody.” He had set too low a value on her graciousness. He had often done it wilfully before for the fun of seeing her give herself airs. “I didn’t mean ‘of course’ like that,” he apologized; “I meant I didn’t doubt it.” “But--but,” she sighed, “you don’t say the right things, Teddy--no, never. You don’t understand.” What did she want him to say, this little girl who was alternately a baby and a woman? When he had puzzled his brain and had failed to guess, he stooped to kiss her good-night She turned her face away petulantly; the next moment she had turned it back and was clinging to him desperately. “I don’t want to leave you. I don’t want to leave you.” “You shan’t.” He had caught something of her passion. “Mrs. Sheerug has promised. She lives quite near our house, and you’ll be my little sister. You shall come and feed my pigeons, and see my father paint pictures. My mother’s called Dearie--did I tell you that? Don’t be frightened; I’ll lie awake all to-night in case you call.” “No, sleep.” She drew her fingers down his face caressingly. “Sleep for my sake, Teddy.” He tried to keep awake, but his eyes grew heavy. Farmer Joseph and Mrs. Sarie came creaking up the stairs. The house was left to shadows. Several times he slipped from his bed and tiptoed to the door. More than once he fancied he heard sounds. They always stopped the second he stirred. The monotonous dripping of rain lulled him. It was like an army of footsteps which advanced and halted, advanced and halted. Even through his sleep they followed. It seemed the last notes of a dream. He sat up and rubbed his eyes. Where was he? In his thoughts he had gone back years. He ought to have been in Mrs. Sheerug’s bedroom, with the harp standing thinly against the panes and the kettle purring on the fire. He was confused at finding that the room was different. While that voice sang on, he had no time for puzzling.