ree, swaying
about like a crow's nest. And there, a minute later, was Mrs.
Pennybet standing below, her skirts held up in one hand, a small
cane in the other.

"Come down, Archie," she said. "Come down."

"Not a bit of it," replied her son. "You come up!"

* * * * *

At least Mrs. Pennybet, a vivacious _raconteuse_, always declared to
me that such was his reply. I do not trust these mothers, however,
and regard it as a piece of her base embroidery. At any rate, it is
certain that her effort to secure Archie for punishment was quite
unsuccessful. And, an hour afterwards, a small figure came quietly
down the trunk of the tree, and, entering the room where his mother
was, sat quickly in a big arm-chair, and held on tightly to its
arms. This position prevented access to that particular area of
Archie Pennybet, which, in the view of himself, his mother, and all
sound conservatives, must be exposed, if corporal punishment is to
be the standard thing. Mrs. Pennybet, good woman, admitted her
defeat, and kissed him repeatedly, while he still held himself tight
in his chair.

Such was Archie Pennybet, whom Mrs. Pennybet considered a remarkably
fine boy, and the son of a remarkably fine woman. In this battle of
wits he undoubtedly won. And it is a fact that throughout life he
made a point of winning, as all shall see, who read Rupert Ray's
story.

He was a mischievous, tumbling scamp, I suppose; but what are we to
say? All young animals gambol, and are saucy. Only this morning I
was watching a lamb butt its mother in the ribs, and roll in the
grass, and dirty its wool--the graceless young rascal!

Sec.3

But come, we are keeping Edgar Gray Doe waiting.

If you have ever steamed up the Estuary of the Fal, that stately
Cornish river, and gazed with rapture at the lofty and thick-wooded
hills, through which the wide stream runs, you have probably seen on
the eastern bank the splendid mansion of Graysroof. You have admired
its doric facade and the deep, green groves that embrace it on every
side. Perhaps it has been pointed out to you as the home of Sir
Peter Gray, the once-famous Surrey bowler, and the parent of a whole
herd of young cricketing Grays.

It was in this palatial dwelling that little Edgar Gray Doe awoke to
a consciousness of himself, and of many other remarkable things;
such things as the broad, silver mouth of the Fal; the green slopes,
on which his house stood; the rathe