‘Mr. Crosby, I want to tell you something,’ says she timidly; ‘those cherries that you sent me’—he is about to tease her again, to pretend he knows nothing of the gift, but her face, pale now and filled with a strange but carefully-held-back emotion, keeps him silent—‘they gave Bonnie a happy half-hour. No matter how I am feeling towards you, about your pretending to be—you know—still, if only for the pleasure your cherries gave Bonnie, I feel intensely thankful to you. He is not strong, as you see. They say he will never be strong again, and it was my fault; for I forgot him one day—one day—and mamma was dead too. I was cross to you about your pretending to be a thief—I hope you won’t mind me?’ It is such a childish speech, and there is such tragedy in the dark eyes! She has not broken down at all. There is not a suspicion of tears in her low, clear young voice, but that the child’s ill-health is a constant grief to her is not to be doubted for a moment. ‘If it comes to that,’ says he slowly, ‘it is I who ought to apologize. And the worst of it is, I haven’t an apology ready. The plain truth is that I couldn’t resist the situation. If I could hope that you would try to forgive me——’ He breaks off. Susan has looked at him, and through the deep gloom of a minute ago a smile has broken on her face. Such a smile! It makes her look about twelve years old, and is indescribably pretty. ‘What a lovely child!’ says Crosby to himself. She holds out her hand to him frankly. ‘But don’t tell anybody,’ says she, in an eager little whisper. ‘Tell! “Is thy servant——” But the brother over there catching cold on the grass with a book before him—he was with you, I think.’ ‘Ah, Jacky and I are chums!’ says she. This seems to settle the question. It occurs to Mr. Crosby that it would be rather nice to be chums with Susan, and he vaguely wonders if she would accept a chum who was not one of the family. Is Dominick a chum? But, then, he is one of the family. When Susan has chums, does she trust them—have little secrets with them? If so, he may clearly rise to the desired position in time. He is conscious of a sense of exhilaration as he tells himself that Susan once regarded him as a thief, and that he is bound by her to keep that regard a secret. ‘Oh, there you are, Mr. Crosby!’ says Carew, stopping in his discussion with Betty; ‘come here and sit down.’ ‘Don’t sit on Betty, whatever you do,’ says Dominick from his place beside her on the grass; ‘she’d be sure to resent it. She takes after our own particular auntie in the way of temper. Susan, my darling’—making a grab at Susan’s ankle, which she has learned from long practice to avoid—‘come and sit down by me. No? Your brainpower must be weak. Have a cigarette, Mr. Crosby. You need not mind the girls. It is all we can do to keep our “baccy” from them.’ ‘If I wanted your nasty “baccy,”’ says Betty, ‘it isn’t likely you would be able to keep it from me. Give Mr. Crosby a match.’