beard, the deep eyes
twinkling, the furrow between them, the funny smile, the thin figure
which always seemed so tall to little Jon; but his mother he couldn't
see. All that represented her was something swaying with two dark eyes
looking back at him; and the scent of her wardrobe.

Bella was in the hall, drawing aside the big curtains, and opening the
front door. Little Jon said, wheedling,

"Bella!"

"Yes, Master Jon."

"Do let's have tea under the oak tree when they come; I know they'd like
it best."

"You mean you'd like it best."

Little Jon considered.

"No, they would, to please me."

Bella smiled. "Very well, I'll take it out if you'll stay quiet here and
not get into mischief before they come."

Little Jon sat down on the bottom step, and nodded. Bella came close,
and looked him over.

"Get up!" she said.

Little Jon got up. She scrutinized him behind; he was not green, and his
knees seemed clean.

"All right!" she said. "My! Aren't you brown? Give me a kiss!"

And little Jon received a peck on his hair.

"What jam?" he asked. "I'm so tired of waiting."

"Gooseberry and strawberry."

Num! They were his favourites!

When she was gone he sat still for quite a minute. It was quiet in the
big hall open to its East end so that he could see one of his trees,
a brig sailing very slowly across the upper lawn. In the outer hall
shadows were slanting from the pillars. Little Jon got up, jumped one of
them, and walked round the clump of iris plants which filled the pool
of grey-white marble in the centre. The flowers were pretty, but only
smelled a very little. He stood in the open doorway and looked out.
Suppose!--suppose they didn't come! He had waited so long that he
felt he could not bear that, and his attention slid at once from such
finality to the dust motes in the bluish sunlight coming in: Thrusting
his hand up, he tried to catch some. Bella ought to have dusted that
piece of air! But perhaps they weren't dust--only what sunlight was made
of, and he looked to see whether the sunlight out of doors was the same.
It was not. He had said he would stay quiet in the hall, but he simply
couldn't any more; and crossing the gravel of the drive he lay down
on the grass beyond. Pulling six daisies he named them carefully,
Sir Lamorac, Sir Tristram, Sir Lancelot, Sir Palimedes, Sir Bors, Sir
Gawain, and fought them in couples till only Sir Lamorac, whom he had
selected for a specially stout stalk, had