“You are looking satirical, Miss Fenton. Oh, of course, I see what you mean; but never mind, there are better things than balls in life. For my part, I prefer a solitary gallop on Bonnie to Strauss’s best waltz, though I do love dancing too, but, you see, neither Violet nor I have been trained to a fashionable life. We have lived in the country, have risen early, and been in the open air from morning to night, and now poor Violet never goes to bed in time to get a beauty sleep, and she drives instead of taking a good walk, so no wonder her cheeks get pale and thin.” “It is a grievous pity,” I began, but Gay interrupted me. “Oh, it is no use talking about Violet, I have given her up long ago; Alick has robbed me of her entirely. Now about your benevolent project; I mean to carry it out. Do you know the Children’s Incurable Hospital, Maida Vale? Violet is always working for that. There is to be a ‘Muriel Cot,’ in memory of the dear little baby she lost. Now why should I not have a ‘Children’s Hive,’ and make those special bees gather honey for those little incurable children. I call that a lovely idea. Look, that end hive under the apple tree shall be the one. Miss Fenton, you have emancipated me; I feel a philanthropist already; the world will be the better for me and my workers.” I looked at her admiringly; such a lovely colour had come to her face, and her eyes looked so bright and happy. I felt I understood Gay Cheriton from that moment. She was one of those guileless, innocent natures that are long in throwing off childhood. She was full of generous impulses, frank and outspoken to a fault; the yoke of life pressed lightly on her; she was like an unbridled colt, that had never felt the curb or the spur; gentle guidance, a word from those she loved, was sufficient to restrain her. I knew now why Joyce had called her the little auntie; there was an air of extreme youth about her; she was so very lovable that diminutiveness suited her, and I thought her father’s pet name of humming bird suited her exactly; she was so quick and bright and restless, her vitality and energy demanded constant movement. “How I am chattering!” she said at last, “and I have all the vases to fill before luncheon, but, as I told you last night, I am fond of talking if I can get anyone to listen to me. Adelaide never will listen to me patiently; she says I am such a chatterbox. Goodbye for the present, Miss Fenton.” And she tripped away, singing in such a fresh young voice as she went down the orchard that I did not wonder when a little brown linnet perched on a rose-bush answered her. I think the birds must have loved to hear her.