"I would rather have you read, auntie," said the little one.
"Never mind, Charlie; I will read to you after."
"Shall we sit in the garden? We have made it quite clean and tidy."
"No, dear; grannie would hear us there. Come into the dining-room."
Established there, the boys one on each side of her, Katherine listened to the young story-teller, who began fluently: "There was once two little boys called Jimmie and Frank. Frank was the biggest; he was very strong and very courageous; and he learned his lessons very well when he liked, but he did not always like. The two little boys had an aunt; she was nice and pleasant sometimes, but more times she was cross and disagreeable, and she spoiled Jimmie a great deal. One day they went out to walk a long way, and saw lots of people riding, and Jimmmie grew tired, and so did Frank, but Frank would not complain, and their aunt was so unkind that she would not call a hansom; so when they came to a great street Frank thought he would catch an omnibus, and he ran out quick—quick. He would have caught it, but his aunt was so silly and such a coward that she sent a man after him, who nearly dragged him under the feet of a horse that was coming up, and they would both have been killed if Frank had not called out to the cabman to stop."
"Oh, Cecil, that is you and I. What a story! Auntie is not unkind, and you did not call out," cried Charlie.
Katherine could not help laughing at the little monkey's version of the incident.
"Cecil, Cecil, you must learn to tell the truth—" she was beginning, when the door was opened, and a small, slight lady in black silk, with a profusion of delicate gray ribbons, jet trimming, and foamy white tulle ruching, stood in the doorway. She was very fair, with light eyes, a soft pink color, and pale golden brown hair—altogether daintily pretty.
"Oh, mammy! mammy! where have you been all my birthday?" cried the elder boy, rushing to her.
"My own precious darling, do not put your dear dirty little paws on my dress!" she exclaimed, in alarm. "I was obliged to go, my boy; but I have brought you a bag of sweets; it is in the hall. Dear me! how stuffy this room is! Mrs. Burnett's house is so cool and fresh! It looks into a charming garden at the back; and oh, how delightful it must be to be rich!" She had advanced into the room as she spoke, and began to untie and smooth out her bonnet strings.
"It must indeed," returned Katherine, with a deep sigh.
"I will go and put on an old dress; this one is too pretty to spoil, and the house is so dusty. Do you think it becoming, Katherine?"
"Yes, very"—with an indulgent smile. "You ought always to wear half-mourning; it suits you admirably."
"I think it does; but I must put it off some day, you know. Cecil dear, go and ask cook to make me a cup of tea. I will have it up in my room. Charlie, don't cuddle up against your aunt in that way; it makes her too hot, and you will grow crooked." Charlie jumped down from his chair and held up his face.
"There, dear," giving a hasty kiss. "Don't worry."
"Mammy," said Cecil, with much solemnity, "I was nearly killed to-day."
"Nonsense, dear! This is one of your wonderful inventions. What does he mean, Katherine?"
"He might have been. He darted from me at Hyde Park Corner, intending to catch an omnibus, and would have been run over if a gentleman had not snatched him from under the horses' feet."
"My precious boy!" laying her hand on his head, but keeping him at a distance. "How wrong of you, Katherine, to let his hand go!"
"I did not let it go; I was not holding it," returned Katherine, dryly.
"At Hyde Park Corner?" pursued Mrs. Frederic Liddell, eagerly. "Was the gentleman soldierly and stout, with gray mustaches?"
"No. He was young and slight and clean-shaved."
"That is curious; for Colonel Ormonde was saying at luncheon to-day that he had saved, or helped to save, such a pretty little boy from being run over. I don't exactly remember what he said. I was listening to Mrs. De Vere Hopkins, and Mrs. Burnett's boy was making a noise. Colonel Ormonde said he was just like a little fellow he had seen nearly run over that morning. I am sure Tom Burnett is not half as handsome as my Cecil."
"I should not have been run over if auntie had left me alone."
"Go and get mother's tea, and you, Charlie, fetch her some nice bread and butter," said Katherine, who, though six or seven years her sister-in-law's junior, looked at first sight older. "There was an elderly gentleman such as you describe, talking with the young man who rescued Cecil, and he was very polite and interested in Cecil, who broke away from me, though he had promised to stay by my side."
"Promised," repeated Mrs. Frederic, lightly, and carefully dusting her bonnet with her handkerchief. "What can you expect from a child's promise? But poor Cecil rarely does right in your eyes."
"Nonsense, Ada!"
"Not at all. I am very observant. But tell me, did Colonel Ormonde take much notice of Cecil?"
"I do not know. I was too much frightened to see anything but the dear child himself."
Mrs. Frederic did not reply for a moment; she seemed to be thinking deeply. "Where did you get those flowers—those you bought on Saturday for sixpence?"
"Oh! at the little florist's on Queen's Road. It was late in the evening, you know, or they would not have been so cheap."
"I should like some to-morrow to make the drawing-room look pretty, if possible, for Colonel Ormonde said he would call. He wishes to see some of my Otocammed photographs. Heigho! it is a miserable place to receive any one in."
"Well, you see, it must do."
"Really, Katherine, you are very unsympathetic. If you have a fault, dear, it is selfishness. You don't mind my saying so?"
"Oh, not at all. I am thankful for the 'if.'"
"Where is your mother?"
"Lying down. She is tired, and has a horrid headache."
"I'm sure I don't wonder at it, toiling from morning till night for those wretched papers. I was telling Mrs. Burnett to-day that my mother-in-law was an authoress, but when I mentioned that she wrote for The Family Friend and The Cheerful Visitor, Lady Everton, who writes in The Court Journal and various grand things of that kind, said they were quite low publications, and never got higher than the servants' hall."
"You need not have gone into particulars, Ada. Whether my mother writes well or ill, the pressure on her is too great to allow of her picking or choosing; she must catch at the quickest market."
"I'm sure it is a great pity. That is the reason I stay on here, and let you teach Cis and Charlie, though Colonel Ormonde says the sooner boys are out of a woman's hands the better."
"If Colonel Ormonde is the old man I saw this morning, he looks more capable of judging a dinner than what is the best training for youth."
"Old!" screamed the pretty widow. "He is not old; he is only mature. He is very well off, too. He has a place in the country. And as to mentioning those papers, I know nothing of such things. The Nineteenth Century, or Bow Bells, or The Family Friend, they are all the same to me. Only I am sure such a nice lady-like woman as Mrs. Liddell should not write for the servants' hall. She must have been so handsome, too! Fred, poor fellow, was her image. You will never be so good-looking, Kate."
"No, I don't suppose I shall," returned Katherine, with much equanimity.
"Are there any letters for me?" asked Mrs. Frederic, looking round as she lifted her bonnet from the table.
"Here are two."
"Ah! this is from Harry Vigors. I suppose he is coming home. And oh! this is Madame de Corset's bill"—putting