Some yards off was a small boy in knickerbockers, red-haired, snub-nosed, extremely pleased with himself. Beside him on the gravel path lay a birdtrap, and in front, on his own private bed or "garden," reposed the dead bodies of three birds, two sparrows and a chaffinch. It seemed that a funeral function was in progress. He had dug five neat graves in a row, and had deposited two birds in two of them. As Mrs. Alyn watched, he took a third, consigned it to receptacle number three, shovelled in the earth, and chanted a short requiem— "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, What the little worms can't eat the big ones must." A variety of feelings struggled on the mother's face, amusement among them. The boy, absorbed in his occupation, saw nothing. Bird number four was laid to rest, and again came the chant— "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, What the little worms—" "Gordon," she said. Gordon dropped his trowel, and turned. "What is all this, sonny?" "Gardener said the birds was just eating everything up." "Where did you find so many dead ones?" "I didn't. I caught 'em." "Killed them! In the trap?" Gordon's under-lip pouted. "And the words you were singing—who told you them?" "Nobody. It's a funeral." She found it difficult to keep her face serious. Stooping to pick up Number Five, she said, "Poor little bird! And it might be still alive and happy, enjoying the sunshine. I wouldn't have believed that my boy could be cruel." She upset the trap with her foot, and walked away, her skirt swaying in undulatory style. Gordon stared after her. The worst thing that could happen in his little life was to have his mother displeased. He shovelled the earth into the untenanted fifth hole; then, with a careless six-foot air, he marched towards the house, where Mrs. Alyn stood in the porch, still handling the hapless bundle of feathers. "Going out, mum?" "No, sonnie." "Won't you take me for a walk?" "No, sonnie." Gordon's under-lip quivered. "I didn't mean to be cruel—course! I promise, I won't kill no more birds." For Gordon to give in without a struggle meant much. She bent down, and he flung two arms round her neck, anxiously glancing to make sure of no witnesses. But witnesses there were, and he pulled himself erect. Mr. Dugdale and Mrs. Keith came up the path; the former, as usual, bland, neat, precise; the latter excited. "How do you do, Kathleen? I am on my way to the station, to change my books, and I thought I would look in on you for a few minutes. I have left the carriage outside—your father was just coming in, so I got out to walk with him. I suppose you would not care to drive to the station. You don't subscribe to Smith's." "Certainly I should like it." Kathleen always enjoyed what other people wanted; and part of her attractiveness was due to this fact. "Shall I get my hat?"