She ran and picked up the sprawling cat and calmly established herself on his knees. Bimbo, neglected, uttered a whining growl, and curling himself up with his chin by his tail, dropped into a morose slumber. “Tell it to Pinkie. She’s stupid and always forgets the stories. Now begin.” Quixtus hummed and ha’d and at last plunged desperately. “There was once a wolf who ate up Red Riding-Hood’s grandmother.” “That’s not it,” cried Sheila. “There was once a sweet little girl who lived with her grandmother. That’s the proper way.” Quixtus floundered. Let any one who has never told a tale to a child and has never heard of Red Riding-Hood for at least five-and-thirty years, try to recount her tragical history. Quixtus had to tell it to an expert in the legend, a fearsome undertaking. At last, with her aid he stumbled through. Pinkie, staring at him through her bead eyes, evidently couldn’t make head or tail of it. Being punched in the midriff by her young protectress, she emitted a wheezy squeak. “Pinkie says ‘thank you,’” Sheila remarked politely. “And what do you say?” asked the blundering elder. Now what had been good enough to merit Pinkie’s thanks had not been good enough to merit hers. Besides, such as it was, she had told half the story. With delicate diplomacy she had handled a difficult situation. Her eyes filled with tears. “Good God!” murmured Quixtus in terror. “She is going to cry. What on earth can I do?” His wits worked quickly. He remembered a recent sitting in the Folk-lore section of the Anthropological Congress. “I suppose, my dear, a story current among the aborigines of Papua wouldn’t interest you?” Her eyes dried magically. She snuggled up against him. “Tell me.” So Quixtus began a story about serpents and tigers and shiny copper-coloured children, and knowing the facts of the folk tale, gradually grew interested and unconsciously discovered a new talent for picturesque narration. One story led to another. He forgot himself and his wrongs, and pathetically strove to interest his audience and explain to her childish mind the significance of tribal mysteries which were woven into the texture of the tales. The explanation left her comparatively cold; but so long as there were tigers whose blood-curdling ferocity she adored, she found the story entrancing. “There!” said he, laughing, when he had come to an end. “What do you think of that?” “It’s booful,” she cried, and clambering on to both knees on his lap, she put both hands on his shoulders and held up her mouth for a kiss. In this touching attitude Clementina and Poynter discovered them. The new-comers exchanged a whimsical glance of intelligence. “Wise woman,” Poynter murmured. “Obvious to any fool,” she retorted—and advanced further into the vestibule. “Feeling decidedly better?” Quixtus blushed in confusion. Sheila climbed down from her perch and ran to Clementina. “Oh, Auntie, Uncle Ephim has been telling me such lovely stories.”