dow with your face to the
wall and stand there all the time John and I play! An'--an' you won't know
what we're doing nor where we're going nor _anything_--so there!"

The Seraph went, weeping bitterly. He hid his face in the dusty lace window
curtain. He looked very small. I could not help remembering how father had
said we were to take care of him and not make him cry.

Somehow that morning things went ill with the adventure. The savour had
gone out of our play. Two were but a paltry company after all. Where was
the cabin-boy with his trusty dirk, eager to bleed for the cause? Though we
kept our backs rigorously turned to the window, and spoke only in whispers,
neither of us could quite forget the presence of that dejected little
figure in the faded holland smock.

After a bit The Seraph's whimpering ceased, and what was our surprise to
hear the chuckling laugh with which he was wont to signify his pleasure!

We turned to look at him. His face was pressed to the window, and again he
giggled rapturously.

"What's up, kid?" we demanded.

"Ole Joseph-an'-his-Bwethern," he sputtered, "winkin' an' wavin' hands wiv
me!"

We were at his side like a shot, and there in the hitherto blank window of
the Peggs' house stood the old gentleman of the flowered dressing-gown
laughing and nodding at The Seraph! When he saw us he made a sign to us to
open our window, and at the same instant raised his own.

It took the three of us to accomplish it, for the window moved unreadily,
being seldom raised, as Mrs. Handsomebody regarded fresh air much as she
regarded a small boy, as something to be kept in its place.

At last the window rose, protesting and creaking, and the next moment we
were face to face with our new acquaintance.

"Hello!" he said, in a loud jovial voice.

"Hello!" said we, and stared.

He had a strong, weather-beaten face, and wide-open light eyes, blue and
wild as the sea.

"Hello, boy!" he repeated, looking at Angel, "What's your name?"

Now Angel was shy with strangers, so I usually answered questions.

"His name," I replied then, "is David Curzon but mother called him Angel,
so we jus' keep on doing it."

"Oh," said the old gentleman. Then he fixed The Seraph with his eye.
"What's the bantling's name?"

The Seraph, mightily confused at being called a bantling, giggled inanely,
so I replied again.

"His name is Alexander Curzon, but mother called him The Seraph, so we jus'
keep on doing it too."