ppearance at tea was hailed with a somewhat qualified
approval.

"You must talk to _us_, mother," Jim said sternly; "talk properly, not
only, `Yes, dear,' `No, dear,' like you do sometimes, and then go on
speaking to her about what we can't understand. She's had you all
afternoon!"

"So I have, Jim. It's your turn now. What do you want to say?"

Jim immediately lapsed into silence. Having gained his point, he had no
remark to offer, but Pat lifted his curly head and asked eagerly--

"Muzzer, shall I ever grow up to be a king?"

"No, my son; little boys like you are never kings."

"Not if I'm very good, and do what I'm told?"

"No, dear, not even then. No one can be a king unless his father is a
king, too, or some very, very great man. What has put that in your
head, I wonder? Why do you want to be a king?"

Pat widened his clear grey eyes; the afternoon sunshine shone on his
ruffled head, turning his curls to gold, until he looked like some
exquisite cherub, too good and beautiful for this wicked world.

"'Cause if I was a king I could take people prisoners and cut off their
heads, and stick them upon posts," he said sweetly; his mother and aunt
exchanged horrified glances. Pat alternated between moods of angelic
tenderness, when every tiger was a "good, _good_ tiger," and naughty
children "never did it any more," and a condition of frank cannibalism,
when he literally wallowed in atrocities. His mother forbode to
lecture, but judiciously turned the conversation.

"Kings can do much nicer things than that, Patsy boy. Our kind King
Edward doesn't like cutting off heads a bit. He is always trying to
prevent men from fighting with each other."

"Is he?"

"Yes, he is. People call him the Peace-maker, because he prevents so
many wars."

"_Bother_ him!" cried Pat fervently.

Margot giggled helplessly. Mrs Martin stared fixedly out of the
window, and Jim in his turn took up the ball of conversation.

"Mummie, will you die before me?"

"I can't tell, dear; nobody knows."

"Will daddy die before me?"

"Probably he will."

"May I have his penknife when he's dead?"

"I think it's about time to cut up that lovely new cake!" cried Margot,
saving the situation with admirable promptitude. "We bought it for you
this afternoon, and it tastes of chocolate, and all sorts of good
things."

The bait was successful, and a silence followed, eloquent of intense
enjoyment; then the table was cleared and