omptly locked her in.

"You're under arrest," he shouted, through the keyhole.

"Let me out!" shrieked Sarah.

"I'll send a file of the guard to fetch you to the orderly room, by
and by," said Robert, "for 'preferring frivolous complaints.'" And he
departed to the farmyard to look at the ducks.

That night, when Robert went up to bed, the Captain quietly locked him
into his dressing-room, from which the bed had been removed.

"You're for sentry-duty to-night," said the Captain. "The carpet-brush
is in the corner. Good-evening."

As his father anticipated, Robert was soon tired of the sentry game in
these new circumstances, and long before the night had half worn away
he wished himself safely undressed and in his own 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.

IN THE NURSERY.

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. The expression of
his face was that of King Charles I. as painted by Vandyke. 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 down-stairs. He strutted like a beadle, and carried his tail
more tightly curled than a bishop's crook. He