John again inserted his knuckles in his eyes, and waved off the smoke from his pipe. And then he recognised his uncanny visitor. It was the little son of the widow who lived under his flat. He was one of the imps of King Pippin's kingdom in the pantomime, and doomed for a small pittance to indulge his apish tricks nightly with the gnomes and fairies of that fanciful realm. "Daubs!" said the imp. Yes, only that was necessary to incite John's wrath. A nickname that was supportable from the actors and scene-shifters was insupportable from a child. "Daubs" therefore turned sharply upon the boy:-- "Are you referring to me?" "Yes, sir." John was on the point of brusquely informing the lad that he was not acquainted with a gentleman of the name of Daubs, and peremptorily showing him the door. A glance from the honest brown eyes, however, restrained him. It told him that what he had at first assumed to be impudence was really the result of ignorance--that, and only that. "I would like to know you, Mr. Daubs. You don't mind knowing a little boy--do you?" John opened his eyes in astonishment. What a curious imp! John was not aware that anybody had any particular desire for his society; in fact, the reverse had hitherto seemed the case. He was usually regarded as an unsociable being. "I have not the least objection to making your acquaintance," said he, _un_reluctantly, it must be confessed. "Oh, thank you," said the little fellow, drawing nearer, and putting his hand confidingly in John's, and looking up at him with bright, happy eyes. "Then perhaps I may--may I?" What "may I" meant was a gentle pressure of the lips upon the smoky cheek of John. If John had been astonished before he was still more astonished now--so much so that the pipe he was smoking fell from his fingers, and was broken into fragments on the floor. What had he, a grumpy bachelor, to do with kissing? Twenty years had passed since his cheek had felt the pressure of lips, and then they were the death-cold lips of a younger brother--surely about the size of this strange imp--who had left him with that dumb farewell for ever. "What is your name, my lad?" said he, softly. "Willie Maxwell. Mother calls me 'her Willie.' Dodo--that is my sister, you know--when she is well" (here the little fellow sighed) "says that I'm her pet. But at the theatre I'm only known as 'Fourth Imp.' Mr. Billings"--Mr. Billings was the stage-manager of the Comedy--"has promised that, if I'm a good boy, I shall some day be First Imp!" "That will be a rise in the world, and no mistake," remarked John. "Well, Mr. Daubs, it will be a little more money for mother--threepence extra a night--but I shouldn't like to push out Teddy Morris. You know Teddy?" John was obliged to confess that he had not the honour of that young gentleman's acquaintance. He never troubled himself with anything or anybody outside his own department.