“What was it? Let me hear the story,” said Raeburn, leaning back in his chair with a look of amusement flickering about his rather stern face. “Why, father, it was years ago; you were on your first tour in America, I must have been about twelve, and Tom fourteen. We had only just settled in here, you know; and one unlucky Saturday we were playing in the garden at 'King of the Castle.'” “What's that?” asked Raeburn. “Why, Tom was king, and I was the Republican Army; and Tom was standing on the top of the wall trying to push me down. He had to sing: “'I'm the king of the castle! Get down, you dirty rascal!' And somehow I don't know how it was instead of climbing up, I pushed him backward by mistake, and he went down with an awful crash into the next garden. We knew it was the garden belonging to No. 16 quite a large one it is for the hospital hasn't any. And when at last I managed to scramble on to the wall, there was Tom, head downward, with his feet sticking up through the roof of a greenhouse, and the rest of him all among the flower pots.” Raeburn laughed heartily. “There was a brute of a cactus jammed against my face, too,” said Tom. “How I ever got out alive was a marvel!” “Well, what happened?” asked Raeburn. “Why, we went round to tell the No. 16 people. Tom waited outside, because he was so frightfully cut about, and I went in and saw an old, old man a sort of Methusaleh who would ask my name, and whether I had anything to do with you.” “What did you say to him?” “I can't remember except that I asked him to let us pay for the glass by installments, and tried to assure him that secularists were not in the habit of smashing other people's property. He was a very jolly old man, and of course he wouldn't let us pay for the glass though he frightened me dreadfully by muttering that he shouldn't wonder if the glass and the honesty combined cost him a pretty penny.” “Did you ever see him again?” “Not to speak to, but we always nodded to each other when we passed in the square. I've not seen him for ages. I thought he must be dead.” “He is dead,” said Raeburn; “and he has left you three hundred pounds, and he has left me his furnished house, with the sole proviso that I live in it.” “What a brick!” cried Tom and Erica, in a breath. “Now fancy, if we hadn't played at 'King of the Castle' that day!” “And if Erica had not been such a zealous little Republican?” said Raeburn, smiling. “Why, father, the very greenhouse will belong to you; and such a nice piece of garden! Oh, when can we go and see it, and choose a nice room for your study?” “I will see Mr. Woodward's executor tomorrow morning,” said Raeburn. “The sooner we move in the better for there are rocks ahead.” “The 'we' refers only to you and Erica,” said Aunt Jean, who had joined them. “Tom and I shall of course stay on here.” “Oh, no, auntie!” cried Erica in such genuine dismay that Aunt Jean was touched.