to do so. She was a different Mrs. Trussit within the boundary of her
kingdom--a very cosy kingdom with pink wall-paper, a dark red sofa, a
canary in a cage, and a fire very lively in the grate. From the depths of a
big arm-chair, her black silk dress rustling a little every now and then,
her knitting needles clinking in the firelight, Mrs. Trussit held many
conversations in a subdued voice with Peter, who sat on the table and swung
his legs. She was valuable from two points of view--as an Historian and
an Encyclopaedia. She had been, in the first place, in the most wonderful
houses--The Earl of Twinkerton's, Bambary House, Wiltshire, was the
greatest of these, and she had been there for ten years; there were
also Lady Mettlesham, the Duchess of Cranburn, and, to Peter, the most
interesting of all, Mr. Henry Galleon, the famous novelist who was so
famous that American ladies used to creep into his garden and pick leaves
off his laurels.

Peter had from her a dazzling picture of wonderful houses--of staircases
and garden walks, of thousands and thousands of shining rooms, of family
portraits, and footmen with beautiful legs. Above it all was "my lady" who
was always beautiful and stately and, of course, devoted to Mrs. Trussit.
Why that good woman left these noble mansions for so dreary a place as Scaw
House Peter never could understand, and for many years that remained a
mystery to him--but in awed whispers he asked her questions about the lords
and ladies of the land and especially about the famous novelist and, from
the answers given to him, constructed a complete and most romantic picture
of the Peerage.

But, as an Encyclopaedia, Mrs. Trussit was even more interesting. She had
apparently discovered at an early age that the golden rule of life was
never to confess yourself defeated by any question whatever, and there was
therefore nothing that he could ask her for which she had not an immediate