"Oh no, of course not. We're going in the country next week, so I wanted to see you." "Cyril's at Aldershot. I don't think he'll be able to come down this afternoon. He can't get away this week, I'm afraid." "I shall see him before I go," said Daphne. "Do you have a letter from him every day, darling?" "Oh yes, a few lines." "He is a noble boy!" said Mrs. Foster enthusiastically. "How he always hated writing letters! I remember how I guided his little hand to write his first letter to his uncle, General Rayner. Just as we got to the end of the letter Cyril suddenly jumped up and threw over the table. The letter was simply drenched in ink. Dear boy! I've got it still.... Oh, you must come into the garden, Daphne. I've something new to show you. A friend of mine has just let her house. She didn't know what to do with her dovecot--nobody wanted it--so she's given it to me. Come and see the dear little creatures--they are so pretty." They went out into the garden and stood looking at a sort of depressed pigeon-house. Mrs. Foster made strange noises, which she thought suitable to attract the inmates, and Daphne saw two doves who struck her as if they had married in haste and were repenting at leisure. "Why don't you let them go free?" suggested the girl. "Just think how happy and delighted they'd be." "I doubt it. I don't think they'd know what to do with their freedom. They're not used to my garden yet, that's what's the matter. I do wish they would coo; perhaps they will a little later on." (This was a favourite expression of Mrs. Foster's.) "I want to see one perched on your shoulder, Daphne. It would make such a pretty picture." "I'd rather give them something to eat," said Daphne. Mrs. Foster started. "Oh yes, of course. I fed them all yesterday afternoon, but I forgot about them this morning. Henry! Henry!" The smallest boy appeared that had ever been called by that name. "Henry, feed the doves." "Yes, ma'am." "Then bring the watering-can. We're going to water the flowers." Henry, who seemed of a morose nature, went to obey. "I'm obliged to have a boy for the knives, and he acts as a gardener when I'm busy," explained Mrs. Foster. "There isn't much of a kitchen garden, only a few gooseberries and apples, as you know, dear, but it's nice to think they grow there, isn't it?" "Very." "Of course, I can't make much show with them. Henry always eats them before they're ripe, which is _rather_ hard. But he's a good, honest boy. One of his sisters has gone in for making blouses--in the village, you know. She's a brave girl, and I feel sure will get on." "She must be! Have you ever ...?"