After breakfast she took a doll, a small work-box, and a tattered book, and settled herself quietly in her favourite corner; this was in Freddie's room, between the back of his couch and the wall, and, though rather dark, very snug and private, and not too retired for her to see all that went on. From here she could watch her mother as she came in and out, and judge when it would be best to speak to her. Not yet evidently. Mother's face looked full of worry and business this morning, and if she sat down for one minute a maid-servant would be sure to appear with, "If you please, ma'am," and then she would have to go away again. Susan sighed as she pushed her sticky needle in and out the doll's frock she was making. Her mind was full of Aunt Enticknapp; if she was Mother's aunt she must, of course, be very very old. Very old ladies always looked cross, and were nearly always deaf. Ought she to call her "aunt" when she spoke to her? What was her other name? Perhaps Freddie could tell her that, at any rate! She stood up and looked at him over the back of the sofa--there he was, reading as usual, with a frown on his white forehead, and all his thick black hair pushed up by his impatient hand. Freddie was ten, two years older than Susan; he had never been able to run about and play like other boys, and her earliest recollection of him was that he was always lying on his back, and always reading. The books he liked best were those that had plenty of fighting and hunting and hardships in them. He was reading now a tale of the Coral Islands, and she knew quite well that he would not like to be disturbed. He was not always good-tempered, but Mother had told Susan that she ought to be patient with him because he was so often in pain. She stood there with her doll under her arm staring thoughtfully at him, and at last he turned a page. "Freddie!" she said very quickly, so that he might not have time to get interested again. "What do you think I ought to call her?" Freddie turned his great black eyes upon her with a puzzled and rather vexed look in them; it was a long way from the Coral Islands to Susan. But she stood expecting an answer, and he said at last with an impatient glance at the doll: "Call her! Oh, call her what you like!" Susan saw his mistake at once. "Oh, I don't mean the doll!" she said in a great hurry. "I mean Aunt-- Aunt--Emptycap." Freddie's attention was caught at last. He put the book down on his knees. "Aunt _who_?" he said with real interest in his voice. Susan knew he was going to laugh at her, and this she never liked. "You know who I mean," she said, "it's not _quite_ the name, but it sounds like that. I want to know if I ought to call her `Aunt.'" Freddie's eyes twinkled, though his face was quite grave: "I should just take care of one thing if I were you," he said; "and that is, not to say her name wrong." "Why?" asked Susan.