“You must never fight when you grow up,” said Lucy. “Gentlemen never do; except when they are soldiers, and have to go and fight for the queen.” “Does the queen want to be fighted for?” said Jock. “If any fellow was to bully her or hit her--” “Oh,” cried Lucy, horrified, “nobody would do that, but people sometimes go against the country, Jock, and then the people that are fighting for England are said to be fighting for the queen.” Jock’s mind, however, went astray in the midst of this discourse. There passed the pair in the road a very captivating little figure--a small boy, much smaller even than Jock, with long fair locks streaming down his shoulders, in the most coquettish of dresses, mounted upon a beautiful cream-colored pony, as tiny as its rider. What child could pass this little equestrian and not gaze after him? The children sighed out of admiration and envy when they saw him, for he was a very well-known figure about Farafield; but the elders shook their heads and said, “Poor child!” Why should the old people say “Poor child!” and the young ones regard him with such admiring eyes? It was little Gerald Ridout, the son of the circus proprietor. Nobody was better known. As he rode along, the most daring little rider, on his pretty little Arab, which was as pretty as himself, with his long flowing curls waving, there could have been no such attractive advertisement. The circus traveled for a great part of the year, but its home was in Farafield, and everybody knew little Gerald. Jock fixed his glistening eyes upon him from the moment of his appearance--eyes that shone with pleasure and sympathy, and that wistful longing to be as beautiful and happy, which is not envy. There was nothing of the more hateful sentiment in little Jock’s heart, but because he admired he would have liked to resemble, had that been within his power. He followed the child with his eyes as long as he was visible. Then he asked, “Do people who are rich have ponies, Lucy?” with much gravity and earnestness. “Very often, dear, and horses too; but that poor little fellow is not rich, you know.” “I should like to be him,” said Jock. “A little circus-boy? to ride upon the stage, and have all the most horrid people staring at you?” “And jump through the hoop, and gallop, gallop, and have a pony like that all to myself. A--h!” Jock cried with a long-drawn breath. “Would you like a pony so very much, Jocky? Then some day you shall have one,” said his sister in her tranquil voice. “I will buy you one when I am rich.” “Are you _soon_ going to be rich?” said the little boy doubtfully. Like wiser people, he preferred the smallest bird in the hand to a whole aviary in the dim and doubtful distance. But Lucy had not a very lively sense of humor. She knew the circumstances better than he did, and said, “Hush! hush!” with a little awe. “Not for a very long time, I hope,” she said.