om Angel was sitting on the side of the bed, pulling
his shirt over his head. The Seraph already slept in his place next the
wall.

I stood before Angel with folded arms.

"Hm," he muttered crossly, "you've been lickin' batter! It's on the end of
your nose. Why didn't you get me something?"

"There was nothing but dough," I explained, "and one batter spoon.
And--and--I say, Angel--"

"Well?" asked my elder tersely.

"I--I'm in love something awful. It hurts. It's like this--" I hurried
on--"You feel like you'd a furnace blazing in you, an' then you turn cold
jus' as if you'd shrivel up, but you _never_, _never_, forget, an'--It's
made a 'normous difference in my life, Angel--"

I got no further. Angel had thrown himself backward on the bed and, kicking
his bare legs in the air, broke into peals of delighted laughter.

"It's that yellow-faced little Jenny!" he gurgled, "Oh, holy smoke!"

His brutal mirth was short-lived. Mrs. Handsomebody appeared in the
doorway, her face genuinely shocked at the sight that met her austere eyes.

At this hour--such actions--was her house to be turned into Bedlam?--such
indecent display of limbs--she was sick with shame for Angel--would discuss
his conduct further, with him, tomorrow.

She waited while I undressed and stood over us while we said our prayers at
the side of the bed, at last extinguishing the light with a final
admonition to be silent.

I was bitterly disappointed in Angel. It was the first time he had failed
me utterly. I put my arms around the sleeping Seraph and cried myself to
sleep.

III

We were awakened by the sonorous music of the Cathedral chimes. It was
Sunday. That meant stiff white Eton collars, and texts gabbled between
mouthfuls of porridge; and, later, our three small bodies arrayed in short
surplices, and the long service in the Cathedral. The Seraph was the very
smallest boy in the choir. I think he was only tolerated there through
Margery's intervention, because it would have broken his loyal little heart
to be separated from Angel and me. He was highly ornamental too, as he
collected the choir offertory in a little velvet bag, his tiny surplice
jauntily bobbing, and the back of his neck, as an old lady once said, was
more touching than the sermon.

Angel had a voice like a flute.

Beyond the tall choir stalls I could catch fleeting glimpses of Jane's
little face beneath her daisied hat, looking on the same prayer-book with
Margery. I s