“I can _that_, Sir!” he replied with a smile. “I’m John Hunter hissel, at your sarvice. It’s nobbut half a mile further—the only house in sight, when you get round bend o’ the road yonder. You’ll find my good woman within, if so be you’ve business wi’ _her_. Or mebbe I’ll do as well?” “Thanks,” I said. “I want to order some milk. Perhaps I had better arrange it with your wife?” “Aye,” said the man. “_She_ minds all _that_. Good day t’ye, Master—and to your bonnie childer, as well!” And he trudged on. “He should have said ‘_child_,’ not ‘_childer_’,” said Bruno. “Sylvie’s not a _childer_!” “He meant _both_ of us,” said Sylvie. “No, he didn’t!” Bruno persisted. “’cause he said ‘bonnie’, oo know!” “Well, at any rate he _looked_ at us both,” Sylvie maintained. “Well, then he _must_ have seen we’re not _both_ bonnie!” Bruno retorted. “A-_course_ I’m much uglier than _oo_! Didn’t he mean _Sylvie_, Mister Sir?” he shouted over his shoulder, as he ran off. But there was no use in replying, as he had already vanished round the bend of the road. When we overtook him he was climbing a gate, and was gazing earnestly into the field, where a horse, a cow, and a kid were browsing amicably together. “For its father, a _Horse_,” he murmured to himself. “For its mother, a _Cow_. For their dear little child, a _little_ Goat, is the most curiousest thing I ever seen in my world!” “Bruno’s World!” I pondered. “Yes, I suppose every child has a world of his own—and every man, too, for the matter of that. I wonder if _that’s_ the cause for all the misunderstanding there is in Life?” “That _must_ be Hunter’s farm!” said Sylvie, pointing to a house on the brow of the hill, led up to by a cart-road. “There’s no other farm in sight, _this_ way; and you _said_ we must be nearly there by this time.” I had _thought_ it, while Bruno was climbing the gate, but I couldn’t remember having _said_ it. However, Sylvie was evidently in the right. “Get down, Bruno,” I said, “and open the gate for us.” “It’s a good thing we’s with oo, _isn’t_ it, Mister Sir?” said Bruno, as we entered the field. “That big dog might have bited oo, if oo’d been alone! Oo needn’t be _flightened_ of it!” he whispered, clinging tight to my hand to encourage me. “It aren’t fierce!” “Fierce!” Sylvie scornfully echoed, as the dog—a magnificent Newfoundland—that had come galloping down the field to meet us, began curveting round us, in gambols full of graceful beauty, and welcoming us with short joyful barks. “Fierce! Why, it’s as gentle as a lamb! It’s—why, Bruno, don’t you know it? It’s——” “So it _are_!” cried Bruno, rushing forwards and throwing his arms round its neck. “Oh, you _dear_ dog!” And it seemed as if the two children would never have done hugging and stroking it. “And how _ever_ did he get _here_?” said Bruno. “Ask him, Sylvie. I doosn’t know how.”