no luck that day. He came back to fetch something and caught
me. And then--just imagine!" Again Gracie was dramatic, though this time
unconsciously. "He sent me to bed and--what do you think? When he came
home to tea, he--whipped me!"

Avery threaded her needle with care. She said nothing.

"I think it was rather a shame," went on Gracie unconcernedly. "Because
he never whips Jeanie or Olive. But then, he can make them cry without,
and he can't make me. I 'spect that's what made him do it, don't you?"

"I don't know, dear," said Avery rather shortly.

Gracie peered round into her face. "Mrs. Denys, you don't like Father, do
you?" she said.

"My dear, that's not a nice question to ask," said Avery, with her eyes
on her work.

"I don't know why not," said Gracie. "I don't like him myself, and he
knows I don't. He'd whip me again if he got the chance, but I'm too jolly
careful now. I was pleased that you got Ronnie and Julian off the other
day. He never suspected, did he? I thought I should have burst during
prayers. It was so funny."

"My dear!" protested Avery.

"Yes, I know," said Gracie. "But you aren't really shocked, dear, kind
Mrs. Denys! You know you aren't. I can see your sweet little dimple.
No, I can't! Yes, I can! I do love your dimple. It goes in and out
like the sun."

Avery leaned back abruptly in her chair. "Oh, foolish one!" she said, and
gathered the child to her with a warmth to which the ardent Gracie was
swift to respond.

"And you are coming out with us, aren't you? Because it's so lovely and
cold. I want to go up on that big hill in Rodding Park, and run and run
and run till I just can't run any longer. Ronnie and Julian are coming
too. And Jeanie and Olive and Pat. We ought to begin and collect holly
for the church decorations. You'll be able to help this year, won't you?
Miss Whalley always bosses things. Have you met Miss Whalley yet? She's
quite the funniest person in Rodding. She was the daughter of the last
Vicar, and she has never forgotten it. So odd of her! As if there were
anything in it! I often wish I weren't a parson's daughter. I'd much
rather belong to someone who had to go up to town every day. There would
be much more fun for everybody then."

Avery was laying her mending together. She supposed she ought to check
the child's chatter, but felt too much in sympathy with her to do so. "I
really don't know if I ought to come," she said. "But it is certainly too
fine an afte