wn comfortable bed. At
half-past twelve o'clock he felt as if he could bear it no longer, and
knocked at the Captain's door.

"Who goes there?" said the Captain.

"Mayn't I go to bed, please?" whined poor Robert.

"Certainly not," said the Captain. "You're on duty."

And on duty poor Robert had to remain, for the Captain had a will as
well as his son. So he rolled himself up in his father's railway rug,
and slept on the floor.

The next night he was very glad to go quietly to bed, and remain there.

IV.

The Captain's children sat at breakfast in a large, bright nursery. It
was the room where the old bachelor had died, and now _her_ children
made it merry. This was just what he would have wished.

They all sat round the table, for it was breakfast-time. There were five
of them, and five bowls of boiled bread-and-milk smoked before them.
Sarah (a foolish, gossiping girl, who acted as nurse till better could
be found) was waiting on them, and by the table sat Darkie, the black
retriever, his long, curly back swaying slightly from the difficulty of
holding himself up, and his solemn hazel eyes fixed very intently on
each and all of the breakfast bowls. He was as silent and sagacious as
Sarah was talkative and empty-headed. Though large, he was unassuming.
Pax, the pug, on the contrary, who came up to the first joint of
Darkie's leg, stood defiantly on his dignity (and his short stumps). He
always placed himself in front of the bigger dog, and made a point of
hustling him in doorways and of going first downstairs.

Robert's tongue was seldom idle, even at meals. "Sarah, who is that tall
old gentleman at church, in the seat near the pulpit?" he asked. "He
wears a cloak like what the Blues wear, only all blue, and is tall
enough for a Life-guardsman. He stood when we were kneeling down, and
said, _Almighty and most merciful Father_, louder than anybody."

Sarah knew who the old gentleman was, and knew also that the children
did not know, and that their parents did not see fit to tell them as
yet. But she had a passion for telling and hearing news, and would
rather gossip with a child than not gossip at all. "Never you mind,
Master Robin," she said, nodding sagaciously. "Little boys aren't to
know everything."

"Ah, then, I know you don't know," replied Robert; "if you did, you'd
tell."

"I do," said Sarah.

"You don't," said Robin.

"Your ma's forbid you to contradict, Master Robin," said Sarah; "and if
y