Bruno drew in a long breath, and made up his mouth for a great effort.

"I mean rev--enge," he said; "now you under'tand." And he looked so
happy and proud at having said the word right at last that I quite
envied him. I rather think Sylvie didn't "under'tand" at all; but she
gave him a little kiss on each cheek, which seemed to do just as well.

So they wandered off lovingly together, in among the buttercups, each
with an arm twined round the other, whispering and laughing as they
went, and never so much as once looked back at poor me. Yes, once, just
before I quite lost sight of them, Bruno half turned his head, and
nodded me a saucy little good-bye over one shoulder. And that was all
the thanks I got for _my_ trouble.

I know you're sorry the story's come to an end--aren't you?--so I'll
just tell you one thing more. The very last thing I saw of them was
this: Sylvie was stooping down with her arms round Bruno's neck, and
saying coaxingly in his ear, "Do you know, Bruno, I've quite forgotten
that hard word; do say it once more. Come! Only this once, dear!"

But Bruno wouldn't try it again.




THE MOCKING-BIRD AND THE DONKEY.

(_From the Spanish of the Mexican poet José Rosas_.)