It is getting dusk in the library, so Mr. Amber clutches the small finger that has rubbed over the "Fruitfull Sermons," and they go to a deep window where young head and old peer anxiously at the pink skin. "Not a speck!" Mr. Amber cries triumphantly. "Not a speck of dust! What did I tell you?" And Percival, holding the finger carefully apart from its fellows: "'Strordinary! Simply 'strordinary to me, you know!" Mr. Amber climbs laboriously up the steps again, and seats himself at the top, and starts dusting all around the "Fruitfull Sermons," and completely forgets Percival, who wanders about for a little and then, hearing a sound, goes to the door. V Here was the white-faced youth, our Egbert Hunt, who had grimaced at him from the box of the wagonette. The white-faced youth stood on the further side of the passage, paused beneath a window by whose light he seemed to be examining a small phial held in his hand. Percival ran forward: "Hallo! Are you a clown, please?" The white-faced youth bit a pale lip and stared resentfully: "Do you live here?" "No, I don't," Percival told him. "I've been having tea with Mrs. Ferris." The white-faced youth developed the sudden heat characteristic of Egbert Hunt in the Miller's Field days. "Well, don't you call me no names, then," said Egbert Hunt fiercely. "I'm not," Percival protested. "You made a face at me when you were driving in the road, and I thought you were a clown, you see." Egbert Hunt breathed hotly through his nose. "Saucing me, ain't you?" he demanded. Percival had heard the expression in the village. "Oh, no," he said in his earnest way. "I thought you had a funny face, that was all." His engaging tone and air mollified the sour Egbert. "I've got a sick yedache," said Egbert. "That's what I've got--crool!" Percival looked sorry and sought to give comfort with a phrase of Aunt Maggie. "It will _soon_ go," he said soothingly. "Not mine," Egbert declared. "Not my sort won't. I'm a living martyr to 'em. Fac'." He nodded with impressive gloom and took three tabloids from the phial he held in his hand. "Vegules," he explained; and swallowed them with a very loud gulping sound. "What are you, please?" Percival inquired, vastly interested. "Slave," said Egbert briefly. "But you're not black," argued Percival, recalling the picture of a chained negro on a missionary almanac in Honor's kitchen. "Thenk Gord, no!" said Egbert piously. "White slaves are worse," he added. "And were those slaves in the carriage with you?" "Tyrangs," said Egbert Hunt. "Tyrangs and sickopants of tyrangs." Percival started a question; then, as a sound came: "That's my Aunt Maggie calling me. Good-by! I hope your poor head will soon be better." Egbert smiled the wan smile of one not to be deluded into hope: "You've been kind to me," he said. "I like you. You ain't like all the rest. What's your name?" "Percival. I really must go now, if you please. My Aunt Maggie--"