Explorers of the Dawn. Mazo de la Roche

were staggered. We withdrew our reddened faces hastily and stared at each other. We were aghast. Almost we had been kissed by a girl!

      "Let's draw the blind!" said Angel. "She shan't see us! Then we can peek through the crack and watch her."

      But no sooner was the blind pulled down than we heard our governess coming and flew to our seats.

      "Boys!" she gobbled, stopping in the doorway, "what does this mean? The boy who pulled down that blind stand up!"

      Angel rose. "The light hurt my eyes," he lied feebly, "I aren't very well."

      "Ridiculous!" snapped Mrs. Handsomebody, running up the blind with precision, "this room at its brightest is dim. Your eyes are keen enough for mischief, sir. Now we shall proceed with our arithmetic."

      We floundered through the Tables, but my mind still wandered in the Bishop's garden. Resentment and curiosity struggled for mastery within me. In my mind's eye I saw her covering and uncovering the doll. Why did she do it? What did it feel like to push that "pram"? Would she drink tea from the Indian Tree cups and be allowed to strum on the piano? Oh, I wished she hadn't come! And yet—anyway, I was glad I was a boy.

      As Fate had it, Angel and The Seraph had to have their hair trimmed that afternoon. My own straight blond crop grew but slowly so I was free for an hour to follow my own devices. Those led me to climb to the roof of our scullery and from there mount the high brick wall.

      From this vantage point I scanned the surrounding country for signs of the interloper. There she was! There she was!

      Down on her knees at the fountain's brink, her curls almost touching the water, she was sailing boats made of hollyhock petals. The doll's perambulator stood near by.

      Noiselessly I crept along the wall till I reached the cherry tree that stood in the corner. Reaching its friendly branches, I let myself down, hand over hand, till, at last, I dropped lightly on the soft turf.

      I sauntered then to her side, and gazed at her moodily. If she saw me she gave no sign.

      In spite of myself I grew interested in the way she manipulated those boat petals. Evidently there was some system in her game but it was new to me.

      "That little black seed on this boat is Jason," she said at last, without looking up, "and these little white seeds are his comrades. They're searching for The Golden Fleece. My hair is the Fleece. Come and play!"

      Mutely I squatted beside her, and our two faces peered at each other in the mirror of the pool.

      She gave a funny eager little laugh.

      "Oh," she cried, "we match beautifully, don't we? Your hair is yellow and my hair is yellow, my eyes are blue and your eyes are blue."

      "My eyes are grey, like father's," I objected.

      "No, they're blue like mine. We match beautifully. Let's play something else." Before I could prevent her, she had swept Jason and his crew away, and, snatching the doll from the perambulator, had set it on the fountain's edge between us.

      "This is Dorothea," she announced, "isn't she sweet? I'm her mother. You should be the father, and Dorothea should want to paddle her toes in the fountain. Now you hold her—so."

      Before I was aware of it I was made to grasp the puppet by the waist, while her mistress began to rearrange the pillows in the "pram."

      I glanced fearfully at our schoolroom window, lest I should be discovered in so unmanly a posture. It seemed that we were quite alone and unobserved.

      A drowsy pleasure stole over my senses. The humming of the bees in the Canterbury Bells became a chant as of sirens. Dorothea's silly pink feet dangled in the pool. Surreptitiously I slipped my hand under water and felt them. They were getting spongy and seemed likely to come off. Truly there were compensations for such slavery.

      My companion returned and sat down with her slim body close to mine.

      "What is your name?" she cooed.

      "John."

      "Oh. Mine is Jane. You may call me Jenny. I'm visiting Aunt Margery. The Bishop is my great-uncle. What are your brothers' names?"

      "Angel and The Seraph. They don't like girls." Instantly I wondered why I had said that. Did I like girls? Not much. But I didn't want Angel interfering in this. He had better keep away.

      "My father is a judge. He sends bad men to prison."

      "My father"—I was very proud of him—"is a civil engineer. He's in South America building a railroad, so that's why we live with Mrs. Handsomebody. But some day he's coming back to make a home for us. When I grow up I shall be an engineer too, and build bridges over canyons."

      "What's canyons? Hold Dorothea tighter."

      I explained canyons at length.

      "P'raps I'll take you with me," I added weakly.

      She clapped her hands rapturously.

      "Oh, what fun!" she gurgled. "I can keep house and hang my washing 'cross the canyon to dry!"

      Frankly I did not relish the thought of my canyon's being thus desecrated. I determined never to allow her to do any such thing, but, at the moment I was willing to indulge her fancy.

      "Yes," she prattled on, "I'll wheel Dorothea up and down the bridge and watch you work."

      Now there was some sense in that. What man does not enjoy being admired while he does things? In fact Jane had hit upon a great elemental truth when she suggested this. From that moment I was hers.

      Laying Dorothea, toes up, on the grass I proceeded to lead Jane into the most cherished realms of my fancy. Together we sailed those "perilous seas in faery lands forlorn," dabbling our hands in the fountain, while the golden August sunshine kissed our necks.

      I said not a word of this at tea. I munched my bread and butter in a sort of haze, scarcely conscious of the subdued conversation led by Mrs. Handsomebody, until I heard her say,

      "A little great-niece of Bishop Torrance is visiting next door. You are therefore invited to take tea with her tomorrow afternoon. I trust you will conduct yourselves with decency at table, and remember that a frail little girl is not to be played with as a headlong boy."

      I felt that she couldn't tell me anything about frail little girls, but I kept my knowledge to myself. The Seraph said—

      "Was you ever a fwail little gel, Mrs. Handsomebody?" Our governess fixed him with her eye.

      "I was a most decorous and obedient little girl, Alexander, and asked no impertinent questions of my elders."

      "Was Mary Ellen a fwail little gel?" persisted The Seraph.