"I have not mentioned this to Felix, because I knew how much it would worry him." Prue's answer, by return of post, was decisive. "Come, and you shall have a welcome," she wrote. "Come on Friday, by all means. I have told my mother of your trouble, and no one else. We believe you perfectly. Poor child how you must have been tried!" Lettice had hardly finished reading the letter, when Keith rushed in. He had been kept at home for a slight toothache, which vanished so soon as school was given up: and he wanted Lettice in the playroom. "Come! Come along," he cried, clinging round her waist, regardless of the fact that Theodosia was present. Lettice tried in vain to loosen his grasp. "It's no good; you can't make me," he cried. "I mean to have all I can of you—every day—and there's lots of things for you to do. You don't mean to be long away, do you? I wish you wouldn't! When is it to be?" "On Friday." "Oh!" The boy gave vent to a kind of indignant howl. "Pray stop that noise!" ordered Theodosia. "You make yourself quite ridiculous. The sooner Lettice leaves, the better, if you behave in this absurd way." "It isn't absurd. I wouldn't care if everybody else went. I only want Lettice. She's never cross." "Hush," whispered Lettice. "But I don't mean to hush: because I hate to lose you. You are the dearest old thing: and I shall be all alone. Come along to the playroom, do! I want you to myself." Lettice yielded, in fear of worse to follow: and she really did not dare to look towards Theodosia. The boy dragged her upstairs, clinging all the way to her waist and when the playroom was reached, he flung himself upon her afresh with boisterous affection. "I say; what makes you do such a stupid thing? Why can't you stay at home?" "Why should I? Nobody wants me." "Yes, they do. I want you. I want you a great deal more than anybody else. I want you always, and always. Lettice! I say, you're not crying?" Lettice dashed aside a bright drop, trying to smile. "Haven't I some reason to cry?" "Why? What do you mean? Because Mamsie doesn't like you?" Theodosia encouraged him to keep up still the old baby-term, when strangers were not present. "Because I am accused of doing a thing I did not do; and no one will believe me." "But I do. You didn't take the money." "No, I didn't, of course. Only I can't prove it. Do you believe me, really, truly?" She longed to feel that at least one in the house, even a child, put faith in her still: longed it the more, because she was going away. Keith laughed. "Why, I know you didn't," he said. "How do you know?" "Why, I know! I know quite well. Mamsie won't let me say you didn't: but I do say it, all the same. She can't guess why I'm sure. But I know it, all the same. I know it perfectly." Lettice stooped to kiss him, and was subjected to a bear's hug. "I shall tell her I'm quite sure, if she says anything again. I'll declare you didn't do it."