her,--I am not nearly a hero yet. I have not got even
really brave, but I mean to. I don't like lots of things here at all,
and I get angry and quarrel with Brian, because he tells lies--or sort
of lies--and is very unkind to Jessie. He pinches her where it won't
show when she won't do what he wants. Nobody ever believes that Brian
does not tell truth. He seems so obedient, and he never asks questions
or bothers people, and he is _so_ clever with his lessons. He always
seems to know them with hardly looking. The Rev. Mr. M'Gregor, who is
our tutor, you know, says Brian is very intelligent; a most promising
pupil he calls him to Aunt Annie. I think Mr. M'Gregor flatters Aunt
Annie, because he wants to stay our tutor. But I don't think Brian
knows _deep down_ about the things what he learns. He never is
tiresome wanting to see behind things, or to know _why_. You remember
those questions always did come to me when I did lessons with you and
father. Cousin Jessie is very pretty, and I know she has a very kind
heart. She gave two shillings out of her money-box--all what she had
saved in pennies--to a little beggar girl without any shoes that came
to the door. Aunt Annie was angry about it, because she said, "No one
need to beg or be poor."

Grandmama is a very nice person, but why does she never listen when I
speak of father? I go and read to her sometimes when she is feeling
well, and she says she likes my reading better than Brian's; he gabbles
on so quick and never stops, because he wants to get it over.
Sometimes I stop altogether in the middle of a chapter and talk
instead. We have very nice talks--we talk about you. Then grandmama
always sighs and says how hard it is you are a soldier's wife, and are
poor and are obliged to live in India. They seem to think a great deal
about being rich here; but I think honour and glory is more, and I mean
to be a soldier.

Aunt Annie does not seem to love her children much. She just kisses
them in the morning and at night once on the cheek, _without any arms_,
and she never goes to tuck them up.

It is funny, I think, but Jess and Brian don't seem to know it is
queer. I call Uncle Hugh the bandbox man--to myself only, of course.
He is never untidy, or hot, or cold. He seems to get up out of bed
tidy; because I saw him in his night-shirt one morning, and his hair
was all straight and smooth.

Mine isn't now when I get up, because they don't cut it so short he