“You are talking too much, Jim,” the authoress replied. “No; that is not the solution,” she continued after a moment, her pince-nez fixed dreamily on the opposite wall. “I’m afraid it is rather difficult to explain, as the plot is a little complex. It is really his friend who shoots him; though he takes this secret with him to the grave. And almost his last words are, “Be kind to Victor”――that is, his friend, who is a cavalry officer with a somewhat violent temper. Of course I’ve only told the children little bits here and there, bits I thought they could understand.” “I hope you’ve brought the manuscript with you,” said the canon gallantly. “After hearing so much of the story it would be tantalizing not to know the rest.” “I believe it _is_ somewhere in my trunk,” the governess admitted. “I am sure I should be only too delighted if you would give me the benefit of your criticism. I have had so little experience. This is my first work. The idea was suggested to me by a very beautiful painting in the Royal Academy, entitled _To Err is Human_. I am sure you remember it. It created a great deal of interest at the time, because nobody could be quite sure which of the persons in the picture had erred, or in what way.” She paused, and a small voice broke in softly. “The heroine’s name is Angelina.... I’m very sorry, Edward.” Edward turned crimson, and darted an angry glance at his younger sister. The other boys laughed. The French windows were thrown open to the warm summer night, and the drawn curtains now were seen to bulge out with stealthy, uncertain movements. “By Jove! It looks like a burglar,” said the canon. “He must have the deuce of a cold in his head too!” For the swaying of the curtains was supplemented by considerable snufflings and snortings, which, to the majority of those present, had a very familiar sound. There was a moment of interested waiting: then Pouncer, who was supposed to be shut up in the kitchen with Bridget and Hannah, stepped self-consciously into the room. “And to whom does _this_ king of dogs belong?” asked the canon gaily. “He’s Grif’s,” said Jim. “Mother says Grif takes after you, and that he will always be unpractical.” “Why such pessimistic views on mother’s part?” the canon wondered, regarding Pouncer’s master with a new interest. Miss Johnson apologized profusely. “I think it will be some people’s bedtime as soon as dinner is over,” she remarked unkindly.