“Providence,” was Robina’s suggestion: it seemed to be the only one possible. “They lifted off one of the saucepans and just dropped the thing in—fortunately wrapped up in a brown paper parcel, which gave them both time to get out of the house. At least Veronica got clear off. For a change it was not she who fell over the mat, it was the boy.” I looked again into the kitchen; then I returned and put my hands on Robina’s shoulders. “It is a most amusing incident—as it has turned out,” I said. “It might have turned out rather seriously,” thought Robina. “It might,” I agreed: “she might be lying upstairs.” “She is a wicked, heartless child,” said Robina; “she ought to be punished.” I lent Robina my handkerchief; she never has one of her own. “She is going to be punished,” I said; “I will think of something.” “And so ought I,” said Robina; “it was my fault, leaving her, knowing what she’s like. I might have murdered her. She doesn’t care. She’s stuffing herself with cakes at this very moment.” “They will probably give her indigestion,” I said. “I hope they do.” “Why didn’t you have better children?” sobbed Robina; “we are none of us any good to you.” “You are not the children I wanted, I confess,” I answered. “That’s a nice kind thing to say!” retorted Robina indignantly. “I wanted such charming children,” I explained—“my idea of charming children: the children I had imagined for myself. Even as babies you disappointed me.” Robina looked astonished. “You, Robina, were the most disappointing,” I complained. “Dick was a boy. One does not calculate upon boy angels; and by the time Veronica arrived I had got more used to things. But I was so excited when you came. The Little Mother and I would steal at night into the nursery. ‘Isn’t it wonderful,’ the Little Mother would whisper, ‘to think it all lies hidden there: the little tiresome child, the sweetheart they will one day take away from us, the wife, the mother?’ ‘I am glad it is a girl,’ I would whisper; ‘I shall be able to watch her grow into womanhood. Most of the girls one comes across in books strike one as not perhaps quite true to life. It will give me such an advantage having a girl of my own. I shall keep a note-book, with a lock and key, devoted to her.’” “Did you?” asked Robina.