Jezebel, and such a jolly picture of the lion killing the prophet.
I do want to see them! Varley told me!'

'And Kitty told me,' added Valetta. 'She is reading such a book to
them. It is called The Beautiful Face, and is all about two children
in a wood, and a horrid old grandmother and a dear old hermit, and a
wicked baron in a castle! Do let us go, Gillyflower.

'Yes,' said Fergus; 'it would be ever so much better fun than poking
here'

'You don't want fun on Sunday.'

'Not fun exactly, but it is nicer.'

'To leave me, the last bit of home, and mamma's own lessons.'

'They ain't mamma's,' protested Fergus; but Valetta was touched by
the tears in Gillian's eyes, kissed her, and declared, 'Not that.'

Whether it were on purpose or not, the next Sunday was eminently
unsuccessful; the Collects were imperfect, the answers in the
Catechism recurred to disused babyish blunders; Fergus twisted
himself into preternatural attitudes, and Valetta teased the Sofy to
scratching point, they yawned ferociously at The Birthday, and would
not be interested even in the pony's death. Then when they went out
walking, they would not hear of the sober Rockstone lane, but
insisted on the esplanade, where they fell in with the redoubtable
Stebbing, who chose to patronise instead of bullying 'little Merry'---
and took him off to the tide mark---to the agony of his sisters, when