were
born. We were so thorough as children. We knew the underneath of every
laurel-bush, the shape of its bunches of darkling branches, the green
dust that our small restless bodies rubbed off from its under twigs. We
see now as strangers those little hanging horse-tails of pink, which
sad-faced elders call _ribes_; but once long ago, when the world was
young, we knew them eye to eye, and the compact little black insects on
them, and the quaint taste of them, and the clean, clean smell of them.
Everything had a taste in those days, and was submitted to that test,
just as until it had been licked the real color of any object of
interest was not ascertained. There was a certain scarlet berry, very
red without and very white within, which we were warned was deadly
poison. How well, after a quarter of a century, we remember the bitter
taste of it; how much better than many other forbidden fruits duly
essayed in later years. We ate those scarlet berries and lived, though
warned to the contrary.

Presently Boulou, who could do nothing simply, found a dead mouse, where
any one else could have found it, in the middle of the path, and made it
an occasion for a theatrical display of growlings and shakings. The
children decided to bury it, and after a becoming silence their voices
could be heard singing "Home, Sweet Home," as the body was being lowered
into the grave previously dug by Boulou, who had to be forcibly
restrained from going on digging it after the obsequies were over.

"He never knows when to stop," said Regie, wearily, as Boulou, with a
little plaster of earth on his nose, was carried coughing back to
Hester.

As she took him Rachel and Sybell came slowly down the path towards
them, and the latter greeted Hester with an effusion which suggested
that when two is not company three may be.

"A most vexing thing has happened," said Sybell, in a gratified tone,
sitting down under Hester's tree. "I really don't think I am to blame.
You know Mr. Tristram, the charming artist who has been staying with
us?"

"I know him," said Hester.

"Well, he was set on making a sketch of me for one of his large
pictures, and it was to have been finished to-day. I don't see any harm
myself in drawing on Sunday. I know the Gresleys do, and I love the
Gresleys, he has such a powerful mind; but one must think for one's
self, and it was only the upper lip, so I consented to sit for him at
four o'clock. I noticed he seemed a little--wel