over him. If you care not to use these, pray to your Gods, and take
what comes with a stout heart.



CHAPTER III.

HOW GOOD LUCK KNOCKED AT THE DOOR OF THE MAN IN GREY.

"Louisa!" roared my father down the kitchen stairs, "are you all
asleep? Here have I had to answer the front door myself." Then my
father strode into his office, and the door slammed. My father could
be very angry when nobody was by.

Quarter of an hour later his bell rang with a quick, authoritative
jangle. My mother, who was peeling potatoes with difficulty in
wash-leather gloves, looked at my aunt who was shelling peas. The
bell rang again louder still this time.

"Once for Louisa, twice for James, isn't it?" enquired my aunt.

"You go, Paul," said my mother; "say that Louisa--" but with the words
a sudden flush overspread my mother's face, and before I could lay
down my slate she had drawn off her gloves and had passed me. "No,
don't stop your lessons, I'll go myself," she said, and ran out.

A few minutes later the kitchen door opened softly, and my mother's
hand, appearing through the jar, beckoned to me mysteriously.

"Walk on your toes," whispered my mother, setting the example as she