“She is grown,” he said. “She is become, it appears, a double cherry.” “No,” said madam seriously, “the other is a second little foundling of my care, and destined to God’s--_our_ God’s” (she added coyly)--“service, de Crespigny.” She had no sense of humour, the dear creature. The next moment, noticing the direction of his gaze, with a little frown she bade us begone to our books. We fled, and, once remote, I turned, with a tragi-hysteric stamp, upon my companion. “Patience! And is that donkey _him_?” “It is Mr. Noel de Crespigny,” she said, amazed. “He is not-- O, Diana, do you really think him”-- “Hee-haw!” I broke in, with a little passion of laughter; and then fury overcame me. “How dared she,” I stormed, “how dared she tell him that lie about me?” “What lie?” said poor Patty. “Why, to claim me to her worship of a golden ass,” I cried. “It was a calf,” said my friend, bewildered. I screamed with laughter. “O, don’t!” Patty implored. “It really was, Diana.” “You dear!” I gasped. “I daresay it was. But he was so badly made, I couldn’t tell.” She followed me upstairs, utterly bewildered. On the landing above we encountered a strange sight. The picture--_the_ picture--was already on its way down from the attics. A groom and maid bore it, and the oddest creature stood above, superintending its resurrection. “Gogo!” whispered Patty; “it’s Gogo!” I could well believe it of such a monster. He was a man, and a huge one, down to his mid-thighs; and there he ended in a couple of wooden stumps. His face, lapped in a very mask of red bristle, was as savage as sin; and he growled and rumbled like an interdicted volcano. “Ay,” he thundered, “I’m Gogo, the Dutch tumbler. Who calls me by my name?” Holding with one hand by the banisters, he struck with the strong stick he carried at the stairs, missed the tread, and was within an inch of falling. The stick rattled down, and he swung and clung with both hands to the rail. In an instant, some whimsical impulse sent me tripping lightly up to help him. “Take my arm,” I said, “down to the landing.” The giggling servants paused in their task to stare up; but the monster himself laboured round, with quite a stunned look. “To help--_me_,” he whispered hoarsely; “the little scented rush to prop the oak!” I was in love with his changed voice at once. It was something to meet only two-thirds of a man. “No, no,” he said, touching my arm as if it were a relic. “I’m Gogo, the colour-grinder, the bottle-washer--not worthy to latch your ladyship’s little shoe. I’ll go down--I’ll go down. Ho-ho! it’s easy. I’ve done it all my life.” While he spoke, the odd creature had descended unaided, and, recovering his stick, struck his wooden limbs fiercely with it. “Do you see?” he cried. “A stiff-kneed dog as ever limped after Fortune!” He flounced upon the servants, and roared them into care of their charge; then turned again to me, where I stood with my friend, who had run trembling to my shelter.