Mark returned to us with his sister; and Miss Ambient, repeating her mention of the claims of her correspondence, passed into the house. Mark came and stood in front of his wife, looking down at the child, who immediately took hold of his hand and kept it while he stayed. “I think Mackintosh ought to see him,” he said; “I think I’ll walk over and fetch him.” “That’s Gwendolen’s idea, I suppose,” Mrs. Ambient replied very sweetly. “It’s not such an out-of-the-way idea when one’s child’s ill,” he returned. “I’m not ill, papa; I’m much better now,” sounded in the boy’s silver pipe. “Is that the truth, or are you only saying it to be agreeable? You’ve a great idea of being agreeable, you know.” The child seemed to meditate on this distinction, this imputation, for a moment; then his exaggerated eyes, which had wandered, caught my own as I watched him. “Do _you_ think me agreeable?” he inquired with the candour of his age and with a look that made his father turn round to me laughing and ask, without saying it, “Isn’t he adorable?” “Then why don’t you hop about, if you feel so lusty?” Ambient went on while his son swung his hand. “Because mamma’s holding me close!” “Oh yes; I know how mamma holds you when I come near!” cried Mark with a grimace at his wife. She turned her charming eyes up to him without deprecation or concession. “You can go for Mackintosh if you like. I think myself it would be better. You ought to drive.” “She says that to get me away,” he put to me with a gaiety that I thought a little false; after which he started for the Doctor’s.