ternoon, Maggie."

"You have driven it several times?" said Alan.

"Yes, I drove him to Abbotstoke yesterday--never started, except at a
fool of a woman with an umbrella, and at the train--and we'll take care
not to meet that."

"It is only to avoid the viaduct at half-past four," said Mrs. May, "and
that is easily done."

"So you are bound for Cocksmoor?" said the doctor. "I told the poor
fellow you were going to see his wife, and he was so thankful, that it
did one's heart good."

"Is he better? I should like to tell his wife," said Flora.

The doctor screwed up his face. "A bad business," he said; "he is a shade
better to-day; he may get through yet; but he is not my patient. I only
saw him because I happened to be there when he was brought in, and Ward
was not in the way."

"And what's his name?"

"I can't tell--don't think I ever heard."

"We ought to know," said Miss Winter; "it would be awkward to go
without."

"To go roaming about Cocksmoor asking where the man in the hospital
lives!" said Flora. "We can't wait till Monday."

"I've done," said Norman; "I'll run down to the hospital and find out.
May I, mamma?"

"Without your pudding, old fellow?"

"I don't want pudding," said Norman, slipping back his chair. "May I,
mamma?"

"To be sure you may;" and Norman, with a hand on the back of Ethel's
chair, took a flying leap over his own, that set all the glasses
ringing.

"Stop, stop! know what you are going after, sir," cried his father.
"What will they know there of Cocksmoor, or the man whose wife has
twins? You must ask for the accident in number five."

"And oh, Norman, come back in time!" said Ethel.

"I'll be bound I'm back before Etheldred the Unready wants me," he
answered, bounding off with an elasticity that caused his mother to say
the boy was made of india-rubber; and then putting his head in by the
window to say, "By-the-bye, if there's any pudding owing to me, that
little chorister fellow of ours, Bill Blake, has got a lot of voracious
brothers that want anything that's going. Tom and Blanche might take it
down to 'em; I'm off! Hooray!" and he scampered headlong up the garden,
prolonging his voice into a tremendous shout as he got farther off,
leaving every one laughing, and his mother tenderly observing that he
was going to run a quarter of a mile and back, and lose his only chance
of pudding for the week--old Bishop Whichcote's rules contemplating no
fare but daily mutton, to b