Palmer lay watching the sunlit lawn, his thoughts far enough away from both Miss Johnson and fireworks. Sometimes he stole a glance at Grif, who sat very quiet. The chequered shadows on the grass, the green branches of the trees, the dark summer sky――to Palmer Grif was as remote from him as all these. Now that he had more or less constituted himself his protector he had begun to observe him closely, and he found him very easy to understand. He looked at Edward; he looked at Jim, at Barbara; and he wondered if he and Grif could become friends. Edward, of course, had always been his friend, and he still liked him fairly well:――it was only that he liked Grif better. He was quite aware that he was not Grif’s sort; (that sort, he imagined, would be rather difficult to find). The little boy made him feel rough and coarse and――something else he could not altogether understand. But his way of speaking pleased Palmer, his manners, which were so gentle and gracious; and he wondered how he would get on at school, for he was to come back with Edward and him after the holidays. He decided that he should have to look after him, and he also decided that it was fortunate he should be there to do so. Even with all the looking after in the world it seemed to him that Grif would have a pretty thin time. “There aren’t really enough,” said Edward. “The whole show will be over in about two ticks.” “What show?” asked Palmer absently, leaning his head back on the grass, and gazing up through green leaves at the sky. “The bonfire won’t,” said Jim. “How old do you think Miss Johnson is, Balmer?” Ann inquired, nestling up to him. “Oh, I don’t know. About seventy.” “No; but really. I want to put candles round the cake I’ve baked for her.” “You’ll jolly well spoil that cake if you go messing about with it,” said Edward. “Why can’t you leave it alone!” “But I want to have the candles,” Ann persisted, “and I don’t like to ask Miss Johnson her age――she’s so particular about questions.” At that moment Miss Johnson herself appeared, in search of Barbara, whom she was taking into the town. “Are you ready, Barbara?” she called out, straightening her glasses, and surveying her pupil through them to see if she were quite tidy. Barbara dropped her mallet and declared that she was. “Miss Johnson, just a sec,” said Palmer, shaking off his reverie, and springing to his feet. “I want to try a puzzle: it won’t take half a jiff.” He produced a pencil and a rather dirty-looking letter from home, which had evidently been in his pocket for many days. These he handed to Miss Johnson. “Another time, Palmer,” the governess said, for, ever since the evening of the dramatic performance, she had regarded all the red-haired boy’s overtures with mistrust. “It won’t take a minute,” Palmer coaxed, and Miss Johnson, after some further hesitation, yielded so far as to accept the paper and pencil. “What am I to do?” she asked.