“That must only make you try all the more,” said his father, speaking out of the depths of his own bitter experience. “You must be very careful not to worry her, because you know that sometimes you talk too loud when she has a headache, or even slam the doors. Will you promise me that you will be very good while I am away?” “Yes, I will, I truthfully will!” said Lion, drying his eyes with a brave attempt at a smile. “I shall soon come back,” said Mr. Beresford, “and I shall write you long letters while I am away, and tell you all about the shells and the snakes and the little black boys.” “And you’ll write it like print, won’t you?” said Lion, “so as I needn’t bother mamma to read it, because that’s just one of the things that vexes her so, when I ask her to read your letters.” He spoke innocently, little knowing the wounding power that his words contained, but Mr. Beresford was well used to hiding his feelings, and he made the required promise in an unshaken voice. “That’s all right, then,” said Lion joyfully. “But oh, daddy dear, you won’t have me to curl your moustache for you, and you don’t look a bit nice when it hangs all down like that,” and throwing himself against his father, he proceeded to curl the offending moustache with his small fingers, while Mr. Beresford laughed at the sight of his earnest frown. “I wish you would not let that child make so much noise,” said a querulous voice at this moment, and leaving their play with a start, both father and son were hushed in a moment. Lion slipped down to the floor and took up his book, and Mr. Beresford went across to the sofa and tried to soften his wife’s displeasure with his attentions. The morning came all too soon, and Lion had hard work to keep a bright face through their hurried breakfast. Greatly to his relief Mrs. Beresford had chosen to remain upstairs, so that he had his father all to himself and could hang lovingly about him until the carriage came to take him to the station. “Don’t forget your promise,” said Mr. Beresford as he drove away. He spoke cheerfully, but his eyes were moist as he looked back at the lonely figure of the little six-year-old boy at the gate. If only his mother’s arm had been round him, he could have far better borne to leave him; but it was useless to indulge in such thoughts, and taking out his pocket-book he was soon deep in calculations. Lion, for his part, tried quite as practical a cure for his grief. “I’ll pick some flowers for mamma,” he said to himself manfully, and having rubbed the tears out of his eyes, he set off round the flower-beds of their hired house, picking a rose here, and a geranium here, until he had as large a bunch as he could hold. “Mamma, I’ve brought you some flowers,” he said, as he ran into her bedroom and laid the straggling nosegay on her lap. Mrs. Beresford was lying on the couch, a novel in her hand and a breakfast tray on the table by her side.