e couldn't see. All that represented
her was something swaying with two dark eyes looking back at him; and the
scent of her wardrobe.

Bella was in the hall, drawing aside the big curtains, and opening the
front door. Little Jon said, wheedling,

"Bella!"

"Yes, Master Jon."

"Do let's have tea under the oak tree when they come; I know they'd like
it best."

"You mean you'd like it best."

Little Jon considered.

"No, they would, to please me."

Bella smiled. "Very well, I'll take it out if you'll stay quiet here and
not get into mischief before they come."

Little Jon sat down on the bottom step, and nodded. Bella came close,
and looked him over.

"Get up!" she said.

Little Jon got up. She scrutinized him behind; he was not green, and his
knees seemed clean.

"All right!" she said. "My! Aren't you brown? Give me a kiss!"

And little Jon received a peck on his hair.

"What jam?" he asked. "I'm so tired of waiting."

"Gooseberry and strawberry."

Num! They were his favourites!

When she was gone he sat still for quite a minute. It was quiet in the
big hall open to its East end so that he could see one of his trees, a
brig sailing very slowly across the upper lawn. In the outer hall
shadows were slanting from the pillars. Little Jon got up, jumped one of
them, and walked round the clump of iris plants which filled the pool of
grey-white marble in the centre. The flowers were pretty, but only
smelled a very little. He stood in the open doorway and looked out.
Suppose!--suppose they didn't come! He had waited so long that he felt
he could not bear that, and his attention slid at once from such finality
to the dust motes in the bluish sunlight coming in: Thrusting his hand
up, he tried to catch some. Bella ought to have dusted that piece of
air! But perhaps they weren't dust--only what sunlight was made of, and
he looked to see whether the sunlight out of doors was the same. It was
not. He had said he would stay quiet in the hall, but he simply couldn't
any more; and crossing the gravel of the drive he lay down on the grass
beyond. Pulling six daisies he named them carefully, Sir Lamorac, Sir
Tristram, Sir Lancelot, Sir Palimedes, Sir Bors, Sir Gawain, and fought
them in couples till only Sir Lamorac, whom he had selected for a
specially stout stalk, had his head on, and even he, after three
encounters, looked worn and waggly. A beetle was moving slowly in the
grass, which almos