‘Oh, Susan, don’t, don’t!’ shrieks he, filled with joy and terror. The terror constitutes three-fourths of the joy. And now he flies again for his life, the deadly bear, the ruthless pursuer, dashing after him with relentless energy. Crosby, watching, tells himself, with a somewhat grim smile, that it is Tommy alone who would flee from such a delightful enemy. Perhaps his thoughts are touched with a tinge of disappointment at finding Susan in this mad mood. Yesterday she had seemed to him angered and disturbed when she left him so abruptly; and he had gone home with a growing sense of contrition strong upon him. It had been strong enough to bring him down this morning with half a dozen apologies, to find that she has forgotten all about this offence and—him. Here lies the real sting. The Susan he had imagined as being a little out of joint with her world—just a very little daintily offended with him—is not the Susan who is here now, and who is running round the garden in merry pursuit of her little brother, with her eyes gleaming like diamonds, and evidently as gay as a lark. She is close on Tommy now. She has put out a hand to grasp him, but Tommy is full of enterprise, doubles like a hare, and is now rushing frantically towards the gate on which Crosby is leaning. This brings Susan, who is still in hot pursuit of him, with her face towards Crosby. Now more distinctly he can see her. What a lovely, perfect child she is, with her loose hair floating behind her, like that of the immortal ‘Damosel,’ and the little soft gasping laughs coming from her open lips! _Joie de vivre_ is written in every line of her face and every curve of her lissom body. All at once, even as he watches her, this joy dies out of her face. ‘She has seen me,’ says Crosby to himself; and forthwith he opens the gate and advances towards her. Tommy, in his race, has reached him, and now, breathless, flings himself into his arms, turning to look, with affected fright, at the coming of Susan. It is a very slow coming, and has evidently something to do with her hair—as can be seen through the branches of a big escallonia on Crosby’s left. He determines to give her time to struggle with that beautiful hair. ‘Tommy, you ought to fall on the gravel and embrace your preserver’s knees,’ says he. ‘I have evidently saved you from an untimely death, if all I heard was true. I think, however, that you might have warned me that bears were about.’ He is quite conscious, whilst speaking, that Susan is still making frantic, but ineffectual, efforts to do up her hair; so he goes on. ‘Where’s your particular bear?’ asks he. ‘Here,’ says Susan, as she steps in the most unexpected fashion from behind the tree. He can see that she is greatly disconcerted, and that she would never have come from behind it if remaining there was any longer possible. But she had seen and heard him, as he had seen and heard her.