of the entire afternoons which she and Sylvia had usually disposed of
much as they pleased; and even what there was of it, was not to be
spent in the way for which the young limbs longed. No one was likely
to play at blind man's buff and hare and hounds in that house; and
even her poor attempt at throwing her gloves or a pen-wiper against
the wall, and catching them in the rebound, and her scampers up-
stairs two steps at once, and runs down with a leap down the last
four steps, were summarily stopped, as unladylike, and too noisy for
Aunt Jane. Kate did get a private run and leap whenever she could,
but never with a safe conscience; and that spoilt the pleasure, or
made it guilty and alarmed.

All she could do really in peace was reading or drawing, or writing
letters to Sylvia. Nobody had interfered with any of these
occupations, though Kate knew that none of them were perfectly
agreeable to Aunt Barbara, who had been heard to speak of children's
reading far too many silly story-books now-a-days, and had declared
that the child would cramp her hand for writing or good drawing with
that nonsense.

However, Lady Jane had several times submitted most complacently to
have a whole long history in pictures explained to her, smiling very
kindly, but not apparently much the wiser. And one, at least, of the
old visions of wealth was fulfilled, for Kate's pocket-money enabled
her to keep herself in story-books and unlimited white paper, as well
as to set up a paint-box with real good colours. But somehow, a new
tale every week had not half the zest that stories had when a fresh
book only came into the house by rare and much prized chances; and
though the paper was smooth, and the blue and red lovely, it was not
half so nice to draw and paint as with Sylvia helping, and the