pleasing and she has a most cheery grin. She reads the works of Florence
Barclay, and doesn't care for music-halls--'low I call them, Miss.' I
asked her if she were fond of music, and she said, 'Oh yes, Miss,' and
then with a coy glance, 'I ply the mandoline.' I think she is about
fifty, and not at all good-looking, so she will be a much more
comfortable person in the house than Julie, who would have moped without
admirers.

"Well, at present Mawson and I are rather like Robinson Crusoe and Man
Friday on the island...."

* * * * *

Pamela stopped and looked out of the window for inspiration. Miss
Bathgate's parlour was not alluring, but the view from it was a
continual feast--spreading fields, woods that in this yellowing time of
the year were a study in old gold, the winding river, and the blue hills
beyond. Pamela saw each detail with delight; then, letting her eyes come
nearer home, she studied the well-kept garden belonging to her landlady.
On the wall that separated it from the next garden a small boy and a dog
were seated.

Pamela liked boys, so she smiled encouragingly to this one, the boy
responding by solemnly raising his cap.

Pamela leaned out of the window.

"Good morning," she said. "What's your name?"

"My name's Gervase Taunton, but I'm called 'the Mhor.' This is Peter