“Why, I do so much want to make some of those Spanish tartlets of your mother’s that are so delicious, and of course Mabel knows nothing of them, and they’re not in my cookery book, and I’ve looked through page upon page of the encyclopedia, right through ‘Spain,’ and there’s nothing yet, and there are fifty pages more, and Leslie won’t help me, though I’ve got a headache, because he’s frabous about something.” She looked at me in comical despair. “Do you want them for the bazaar?” “Yes—for to-morrow. Cook has done the rest, but I had fairly set my heart on these. Don’t you think they are lovely?” “Exquisitely lovely. Suppose I go and ask mother.” “If you would. But no, oh no, you can’t make all that journey this terrible night. We are simply besieged by mud. The men are both out—William has gone to meet father—and mother has sent George to carry some things to the vicarage. I can’t ask one of the girls on a night like this. I shall have to let it go—and the cranberry tarts too—it cannot be helped. I am so miserable.” “Ask Leslie,” said I. “He is too cross,” she replied, looking at him. He did not deign a remark. “Will you Leslie?” “What?” “Go across to Woodside for me?” “What for?” “A recipe. Do, there’s a dear boy.” “Where are the men?” “They are both engaged—they are out.” “Send a girl, then.” “At night like this? Who would go?” “Cissy.” “I shall not ask her. Isn’t he mean, Cyril? Men are mean.” “I will come back,” said I. “There is nothing at home to do. Mother is reading, and Lettie is stitching. The weather disagrees with her, as it does with Leslie.” “But it is not fair——” she said, looking at me softly. Then she put away the great book and climbed down. “Won’t you go, Leslie?” she said, laying her hand on his shoulder. “Women!” he said, rising as if reluctantly. “There’s no end to their wants and their caprices.” “I thought he would go,” said she warmly. She ran to fetch his overcoat. He put one arm slowly in the sleeve, and then the other, but he would not lift the coat on to his shoulders. “Well!” she said, struggling on tiptoe, “You are a great creature! Can’t you get it on, naughty child?” “Give her a chair to stand on,” he said. She shook the collar of the coat sharply, but he stood like a sheep, impassive. “Leslie, you are too bad. I can’t get it on, you stupid boy.” I took the coat and jerked it on. “There,” she said, giving him his cap. “Now don’t be long.” “What a damned dirty night!” said he, when we were out. “It is,” said I. “The town, anywhere’s better than this hell of a country.” “Ha! How did you enjoy yourself?” He began a long history of three days in the metropolis. I listened, and heard little. I heard more plainly the cry of some night birds over Nethermere, and the peevish, wailing, yarling cry of some beast in the wood. I was thankful to slam the door behind me, to stand in the light of the hall. “Leslie!” exclaimed mother, “I am glad to see you.”