“Matilda Jane, you needn’t mind; For, though you’re deaf, and dumb, and blind, There’s _some one_ loves you, it is plain— And that is _me,_ Matilda Jane!” She sang three of the verses in a rather perfunctory style, but the last stanza evidently excited the little maiden. Her voice rose, ever clearer and louder: she had a rapt look on her face, as if suddenly inspired, and, as she sang the last few words, she clasped to her heart the inattentive Matilda Jane. “Kiss it now!” prompted the Head-Nurse. And in a moment the simpering meaningless face of the Baby was covered with a shower of passionate kisses. “What a bonny song!” cried the Farmer’s wife. “Who made the words, dearie?” “I—I think I’ll look for Bruno,” Sylvie said demurely, and left us hastily. The curious child seemed always afraid of being praised, or even noticed. “Sylvie planned the words,” Bessie informed us, proud of her superior information: “and Bruno planned the music—and _I_ sang it!” (this last circumstance, by the way, we did not need to be told). So we followed Sylvie, and all entered the parlour together. Bruno was still standing at the window, with his elbows on the sill. He had, apparently, finished the story that he was telling to the fly, and had found a new occupation. “Don’t imperrupt!” he said as we came in. “I’m counting the Pigs in the field!” “How many are there?” I enquired. “About a thousand and four,” said Bruno. “You mean ‘about a thousand,’” Sylvie corrected him. “There’s no good saying ‘_and four_’: you _ca’n’t_ be sure about the four!” “And you’re as wrong as ever!” Bruno exclaimed triumphantly. “It’s just the _four_ I _can_ be sure about; ’cause they’re here, grubbling under the window! It’s the _thousand_ I isn’t pruffickly sure about!” “But some of them have gone into the sty,” Sylvie said, leaning over him to look out of the window. “Yes,” said Bruno; “but they went so slowly and so fewly, I didn’t care to count _them_.” “We must be going, children,” I said. “Wish Bessie good-bye.” Sylvie flung her arms round the little maiden’s neck, and kissed her: but Bruno stood aloof, looking unusually shy. (“I never kiss _nobody_ but Sylvie!” he explained to me afterwards.) The farmer’s wife showed us out: and we were soon on our way back to Elveston. “And that’s the new public-house that we were talking about, I suppose?” I said, as we came in sight of a long low building, with the words ‘The Golden Lion’ over the door. “Yes, that’s it,” said Sylvie. “I wonder if _her_ Willie’s inside? Run in, Bruno, and see if he’s there.” I interposed, feeling that Bruno was, in a sort of way, in _my_ care. “That’s not a place to send a child into.” For already the revelers were getting noisy: and a wild discord of singing, shouting, and meaningless laughter came to us through the open windows.