sounded fearfully incredulous.

"Some day, my darling."

"But, grandma." Kezia waved her left leg and waggled the toes. They felt
sandy. "What if I just won't?"

The old woman sighed again and drew a long thread from the ball.

"We're not asked, Kezia," she said sadly. "It happens to all of us
sooner or later."

Kezia lay still thinking this over. She didn't want to die. It meant she
would have to leave here, leave everywhere, for ever, leave--leave her
grandma. She rolled over quickly.

"Grandma," she said in a startled voice.

"What, my pet!"

"You're not to die." Kezia was very decided.

"Ah, Kezia"--her grandma looked up and smiled and shook her head--"don't
let's talk about it."

"But you're not to. You couldn't leave me. You couldn't not be there."
This was awful. "Promise me you won't ever do it, grandma," pleaded
Kezia.

The old woman went on knitting.

"Promise me! Say never!"

But still her grandma was silent.

Kezia rolled off her bed; she couldn't bear it any longer, and lightly
she leapt on to her grandma's knees, clasped her hands round the old
woman's throat and began kissing her, under the chin, behind the ear,
and blowing down her neck.

"Say never... say never... say never--" She gasped between the kisses. And
then she began, very softly and lightly, to tickle her grandma.

"Kezia!" The old woman dropped her knitting. She swung back in the
rocker. She began to tickle Kezia. "Say never, say never, say never,"
gurgled Kezia, while they lay there laughing in each other's arms.
"Come, that's enough, my squirrel! That's enough, my wild pony!" said
old Mrs. Fairfield, setting her cap straight. "Pick up my knitting."

Both of them had forgotten what the "never" was about.

Chapter 1.VIII.

The sun was still full on the garden when the back door of the Burnells'
shut with a bang, and a very gay figure walked down the path to the
gate. It was Alice, the servant-girl, dressed for her afternoon out. She
wore a white cotton dress with such large red spots on it and so many
that they made you shudder, white shoes and a leghorn turned up under
the brim with poppies. Of course she wore gloves, white ones, stained
at the fastenings with iron-mould, and in one hand she carried a very
dashed-looking sunshade which she referred to as her "perishall."

Beryl, sitting in the window, fanning her freshly-washed hair, thought
she had never seen such a guy. If Alice had only blacked her face with