It was the day after the adventure of Julius Caesar and the Little Black Girl that Cyril, bursting into the bathroom to wash his hands for dinner (you have no idea how dirty they were, for he had been playing shipwrecked mariners all the morning on the leads at the back of the house, where the water-cistern is), found Anthea leaning her elbows on the edge of the bath, and crying steadily into it. “Hullo!” he said, with brotherly concern, “what’s up now? Dinner’ll be cold before you’ve got enough salt-water for a bath.” “Go away,” said Anthea fiercely. “I hate you! I hate everybody!” There was a stricken pause. “_I_ didn’t know,” said Cyril tamely. “Nobody ever does know anything,” sobbed Anthea. “I didn’t know you were waxy. I thought you’d just hurt your fingers with the tap again like you did last week,” Cyril carefully explained. “Oh—fingers!” sneered Anthea through her sniffs. “Here, drop it, Panther,” he said uncomfortably. “You haven’t been having a row or anything?” “No,” she said. “Wash your horrid hands, for goodness’ sake, if that’s what you came for, or go.” Anthea was so seldom cross that when she was cross the others were always more surprised than angry. Cyril edged along the side of the bath and stood beside her. He put his hand on her arm. “Dry up, do,” he said, rather tenderly for him. And, finding that though she did not at once take his advice she did not seem to resent it, he put his arm awkwardly across her shoulders and rubbed his head against her ear. “There!” he said, in the tone of one administering a priceless cure for all possible sorrows. “Now, what’s up?” “Promise you won’t laugh?” “I don’t feel laughish myself,” said Cyril, dismally. “Well, then,” said Anthea, leaning her ear against his head, “it’s Mother.” “What’s the matter with Mother?” asked Cyril, with apparent want of sympathy. “She was all right in her letter this morning.” “Yes; but I want her so.” “You’re not the only one,” said Cyril briefly, and the brevity of his tone admitted a good deal. “Oh, yes,” said Anthea, “I know. We all want her all the time. But I want her now most dreadfully, awfully much. I never wanted anything so much. That Imogen child—the way the ancient British Queen cuddled her up! And Imogen wasn’t me, and the Queen was Mother. And then her letter this morning! And about The Lamb liking the salt bathing! And she bathed him in this very bath the night before she went away—oh, oh, oh!” Cyril thumped her on the back. “Cheer up,” he said. “You know my inside thinking that I was doing? Well, that was partly about Mother. We’ll soon get her back. If you’ll chuck it, like a sensible kid, and wash your face, I’ll tell you about it. That’s right. You let me get to the tap. Can’t you stop crying? Shall I put the door-key down your back?”