e lately always thought of him
as possessing a lazy sort of good-nature.

Tony was changing this view.

He was not yet at all talkative, but every now and then when he was
alone with her he became frank and communicative, as reserved people
often will when suddenly they let themselves go. And his very simplicity
gave force to his revelations.

During their last year together in India it was evident that downright
antagonism had existed between Hugo Tancred and his little son. Tony had
weighed his father and found him wanting; and it was clear that he had
tried to insert his small personality as a buffer between his father and
mother.

Jan talked constantly to the children of their mother. Her portraits,
Anthony's paintings and sketches, were all over the house, in every
variety of happy pose. One of the best was hung at the foot of Tony's
cot. The gentle blue eyes seemed to follow him in wistful benediction,
and alone in bed at night he often thought of her, and of his home in
India. It was, then, quite natural that he should talk of them to this
Auntie Jan who had evidently loved his mother well; and from Tony Jan
learned a good deal more about her brother-in-law than she had ever
heard from his wife.

Tony loved to potter about with his aunt in the garden. She worked
really hard, for there was much to do, and he tried his best to assist,
often being a very great hindrance; but she never sent him away, for she
desired above all things to gain his confidence.

One day after a hard half-hour's weeding, when Tony had wasted much time
by pulling up several sorts of the wrong thing, Jan felt her temper
getting edgy, so they sat down to rest upon one of the many convenient
seats to be found at Wren's End. Anthony hated a garden where you
couldn't sit comfortably and smoke, wheresoever the prospect was
pleasing.

Tony sat down too, looking almost rosy after his labours.

He didn't sit close and cuddly, as little Fay would have done, but right
at the other end of the seat, where he could stare at her. Every day was
bringing Tony more surely to the conclusion that "he liked to look at"
his aunt.

"You like Meg, don't you?" he said.

"No," Jan shook her head. "I don't like her. I love her; which is quite
a different thing."

"Do you like people and love them?"

"I like some people--a great many people--then there are others, not so
many, that I love--you're one of them."

"Is Fay?"

"Certainly, dear little Fa