“From what I hear,” said I, “it’s nothing but your diligence and motherly behaviour to ’em that’s made ’em as famous as they are.” “I don’t say that,” remarked the modest Grace, but her expression said that this judicious statement was not unpleasing. “But I deserve a little bit of credit for their fame. The amount of watching that they take is something awful; Charlie in particular. At times Charlie’s just heart-breaking. Sometimes I can’t sleep for thinking of him!” Had the best bowler at either ’Varsity since Sammy Woods been just then in my place and heard his sister’s long-drawn sigh and seen her pronounced tendency to tears, I’m certain that that robust sinner would have gone down on his knees before her and prayed for a remission of his sins. I think I never was more touched. “What a shame!” said I. “He’s so careless,” she said; “can’t restrain himself, you know; and he don’t feel his responsibilities a bit. He don’t care a pin about his average. ’Might be the ordinaryest bowler that ever was, instead of Charlie Trentham. Bought him a Whiteley exerciser for his birthday, but he uses all his spare time in whistling and playing ‘pills,’ instead of getting up his muscle and his stamina.” “He must be a great trial,” said I, working the sympathetic vein for all that it was worth. I think, though, the Great Trial would have had a fit had he been privileged to hear me. “Yes, Dimmy, that’s exactly what he is--he is a trial,” said poor Miss Grace. “If he’d only got a bit of head, I wouldn’t care. He’s got the courage of a lion, never knows when he’s licked and all that, and his muscles are just lovely; but as for intellect, you’ve only got to treat him to a drink to make him your friend for ever. And I don’t think he knows what two and two make, either. Here’s an instance now: he actually invites down that wicked little Toddles, when he’s going to play for Middlesex against Kent on Monday. And what does that wicked little Toddles do? Like the giddy goat I am, I didn’t sit up and see ’em all to bed, as I mean to do to-night, but left ’em up with a promise of ‘We shan’t be long.’ But weren’t they! Well, I lay awake and listened for ’em, but never heard a sound. When the clock struck two, I got up and dressed, and came down to see what they were up to. There were those three beautiful brothers o’ mine, who are playing against Kent on Monday, having a hand at poker with Jimmy Carteret, whilst the Rev. Mr. Toddles, if you please, was mixing their drinks. An owl would see the Rev. Mr. Toddles’s little game. He means to have Charlie as stale as anything by Monday, and Archie’s liver wrong. But I told Master Curate precisely what I thought about him, and gave him the straight tip, too, that if he did manage to get the boys crocked for Monday, he should have a pretty thick dose of Keating’s vermin-killer in his soup, the little insect! Yes,” she concluded, with grim determination, “if I never get to bed at all, I’ll see that there