en the General had just got the command at Woolwich, and Mrs Grantly
once more came back to the assault--her constant plea that she should
have Ger given over to her entirely.

"You really are, Margie, a greedy, grasping woman. Here are you with
six children, four of them sons. And here am I with only one child, a
miserable, measly girl, and you won't let me have even one of the boys."

The miserable, measly girl referred to laughed and knelt down at her
mother's knee. "Dearest, you really get quite as much of the children
as is good for you--or them----"

"You can't say I spoil them; I didn't spoil you, and you were only one."

"I'm sorry I couldn't be more," Mrs Ffolliot said contritely; "but you
see, mother dear, it's like this, it's just because I was only one I
want the children to have as much as possible of each other . . . while
they are young . . . I want them to grow up . . ." Mrs Ffolliot sat
down on the floor and leant her head against Mrs Grantly's knees so
that her face was hidden. "I want them to realise what a lot of other
people there are in the world, all with hopes and fears and likes and
dislikes and joys and sorrows . . . and that each one of them is only a
very little humble atom of a great whole--and that's what they can
teach each other--I can't do it--you can't do it--but they can manage
it amongst them."

Mrs Grantly did not answer; quick as she was in repartee, she had the
much rarer gift of sympathetic silence. She laid a kind hand on her
daughter's bent head and softly stroked it.

The clock struck four, and still Mr Ffolliot sat on in his chair with
_Gaston Latour_ unopened, held loosely in his long slender hands.

A dignified presence with every attribute that goes to make the scholar
and the gentleman; though one who judged of character from external
appearance might have misdoubted the thin straight lips, the rather
pinched nostrils, the eyes too close together, and above all, the
head--high and intellectual, but almost devoid of curve at the back. A
clean-cut, ascetic, handsome face, as a rule calm and judicial in its
dignified repose.

This afternoon, though, the Squire lacks his usual serene poise. His
self-confidence has been shaken, and it is his young sons who have
disturbed its delicately adjusted equilibrium.

He was puzzled.

It is a mistake to imagine that selfish and ungrateful people fail to
recognise these qualities in others. Not only are they quick to