er does know anything,' sobbed Anthea.

'I didn't know you were waxy. I thought you'd just hurt your fingers
with the tap again like you did last week,' Cyril carefully explained.

'Oh--fingers!' sneered Anthea through her sniffs.

'Here, drop it, Panther,' he said uncomfortably. 'You haven't been
having a row or anything?'

'No,' she said. 'Wash your horrid hands, for goodness' sake, if that's
what you came for, or go.'

Anthea was so seldom cross that when she was cross the others were
always more surprised than angry.

Cyril edged along the side of the bath and stood beside her. He put his
hand on her arm.

'Dry up, do,' he said, rather tenderly for him. And, finding that though
she did not at once take his advice she did not seem to resent it, he
put his arm awkwardly across her shoulders and rubbed his head against
her ear.

'There!' he said, in the tone of one administering a priceless cure for
all possible sorrows. 'Now, what's up?'

'Promise you won't laugh?'

'I don't feel laughish myself,' said Cyril, dismally.

'Well, then,' said Anthea, leaning her ear against his head, 'it's
Mother.'

'What's the matter with Mother?' asked Cyril, with apparent want of
sympathy. 'She was all right in her letter this morning.'

'Yes; but I want her so.'

'You're not the only one,' said Cyril briefly, and the brevity of his
tone admitted a good deal.

'Oh, yes,' said Anthea, 'I know. We all want her all the time. But I
want her now most dreadfully, awfully much. I never wanted anything so
much. That Imogen child--the way the ancient British Queen cuddled her
up! And Imogen wasn't me, and the Queen was Mother. And then her letter
this morning! And about The Lamb liking the salt bathing! And she bathed
him in this very bath the night before she went away--oh, oh, oh!'

Cyril thumped her on the back.

'Cheer up,' he said. 'You know my inside thinking that I was doing?
Well, that was partly about Mother. We'll soon get her back. If you'll
chuck it, like a sensible kid, and wash your face, I'll tell you about
it. That's right. You let me get to the tap. Can't you stop crying?
Shall I put the door-key down your back?'

'That's for noses,' said Anthea, 'and I'm not a kid any more than you
are,' but she laughed a little, and her mouth began to get back into its
proper shape. You know what an odd shape your mouth gets into when you
cry in earnest.

'Look here,' said Cyril, working the soap round and round betwe