nch
of a blackberry tree in one hand, and with the other greedily plucking
and eating the fruit as fast as he could.

"Who can he be?" said Nora, who had grown very pale.

"I wish I'd a gun here," said Hilary, who was rather given to boasting.

"Nonsense," said Nora, "if he's some kind of a man,--and he can't be an
_animal_--animals don't wear jackets and caps--it would be very wrong,
and if he's a--a wood-spirit, or anything like that, shooting would be
no good."

But Hilary and she had raised their voices in this discussion without
knowing it. Suddenly the small man turned round, placed one hand behind
his big black ear, as if listening, and then, seemingly catching sight
of the children, sprang forward, stretching out his two long arms before
him in a curious way towards the little group.

A group no longer--with a scream, or three screams joined into one, the
children had turned and fled. How they got through the thick growing
bushes without being torn to pieces I am sure I cannot tell. Fear lends
wings, I suppose. However that may be, I know it was in a wonderfully
short time that they found themselves, panting and shaking, breathless
and trembling, but safe, inside the shelter of their own garden gate.

"Oh, Nora!"

"Oh, Cecil!"

"Oh, Hilary!"

"I never was so frightened in my life," each exclaimed in turn.

"If we hadn't _all_ seen it, we might think it was fancy," said Nora.

"I'm afraid the big ones will say it's fancy as it is," said Cecil, "and
they will so laugh at us."

"Then we won't tell them," said Nora, "at least we'll wait a little and
see. But I daren't go into the woods again; I really _daren't_."

"Not without a gun," said Hilary.

"Rubbish," said Nora.

They kept their own counsel all that day, though strongly tempted to
confide in one or other of the big ones. But after dinner that evening,
when they went into dessert, Cecil's father called them to him.

"I've got a story which will amuse you, children," he said. "I was
riding past Welby's farm this morning, and Welby was quite full of a
present his sailor son has sent him. It is a monkey--the funniest little
fellow possible. He arrived, dressed in a red jacket and cap, and was
soon as friendly as possible with them all, he says. But the queerest
thing is this. Last week Tom Welby took the monkey a walk in the woods
and gave him some blackberries. Mr. Monkey seemed to like them very
much, and the next morning be disappeared, to