"She says she meant it to be a pleasant surprise, because we've been rather hard up since my father died, and this chap's got horses and everything, and she says he's going to adopt me. As if I wanted to be adopted by any old stuck-up money-grubber!" "But you haven't seen him," said Charling gently. "If _I'm_ silly, _you_ are too, aren't you?" She hid her face on her sleeve to avoid seeing the effect of this daring shot. Only silence answered her. Presently Harry said-- "Now, kiddie, let me take you home, will you? Give the stepmother a fair show, anyhow." Charling reflected. She was very tired. She stroked Harry's hand absently, and after a while said-- "I will if you will." "Will what?" "Go back and give your chap a fair show." And now the boy reflected. "Done," he said suddenly. "After all, what's sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander. Come on." He stood up and held out his hand. This was about the time when the cook packed her box and went off, leaving it to be sent after her. Public opinion in the servants' hall was too strong to be longer faced. The shadows of the trees lay black and level across the pastures when the two children reached the lodge gates. A floral arch was above the gate, and wreaths of flowers and flags made the avenue gay. Charling had grown very tired, and Harry had carried her on his back for the last mile or two--resting often, because Charling was a strong, healthy child, and, as he phrased it, "no slouch of a weight." Now they paused at the gate of the lodge. "This is my house," said Charling. "They've put all these things up for _her_, I suppose. If you'll write down your address I'll give you mine, and we can write and tell each other what _they_ are like afterwards. I've got a bit of chalk somewhere." She fumbled in the dusty confusion of her little pocket while Harry found the envelope of his sister's letter and tore it in two. Then, one on each side of the lodge gate-post, the children wrote, slowly and carefully, for some moments. Presently they exchanged papers, and each read the words written by the other. Then suddenly both turned very red. "But this is _my_ address," said she. "The Grange, Falconbridge." "It's where my sister's gone to live, anyhow," said he. "Then--then--" Conviction forced itself first on the boy. "What a duffer I've been! It's _him_ she's married." "Your sister?" "Yes. Are you _sure_ your father's a good sort?" "How dare you ask!" said Charling. "It's your sister I want to know about." "She's the dearest old darling!" he cried. "Oh! kiddie, come along; run for all you're worth, and perhaps we can get in the back way, and get tidied up before they come, and they need never know."