ng by that, you see."

Vickers rose, with annoyance visible on his face, to draw the child
away; and as he did so, she, gasping for breath, and sobbing with rage,
wrenched her wrist free, and in a storm of childish passion struck her
tormentor again and again. "Man!" she cried, with flaming eyes, "Let me
go! I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!"

"I am very sorry for this, Frere," said Vickers, when the door was
closed again. "I hope she did not hurt you."

"Not she! I like her spirit. Ha, ha! That's the way with women all the
world over. Nothing like showing them that they've got a master."

Vickers hastened to turn the conversation, and, amid recollections of
old days, and speculations as to future prospects, the little incident
was forgotten. But when, an hour later, Mr. Frere traversed the passage
that led to his bedroom, he found himself confronted by a little figure
wrapped in a shawl. It was his childish enemy.

"I've waited for you, Mr. Frere," said she, "to beg pardon. I ought not
to have struck you; I am a wicked girl. Don't say no, because I am; and
if I don't grow better I shall never go to Heaven."

Thus addressing him, the child produced a piece of paper, folded like a
letter, from beneath the shawl, and handed it to him.

"What's this?" he asked. "Go back to bed, my dear; you'll catch cold."

"It's a written apology; and I sha'n't catch cold, because I've got my
stockings on. If you don't accept it," she added, with an arching of the
brows, "it is not my fault. I have struck you, but I apologize. Being a
woman, I can't offer you satisfaction in the usual way."

Mr. Frere stifled the impulse to laugh, and made his courteous adversary
a low bow.

"I accept your apology, Miss Sylvia," said he.

"Then," returned Miss Sylvia, in a lofty manner, "there is nothing more
to be said, and I have the honour to bid you good-night, sir."

The little maiden drew her shawl close around her with immense dignity,
and marched down the passage as calmly as though she had been Amadis of
Gaul himself.

Frere, gaining his room choking with laughter, opened the folded paper
by the light of the tallow candle, and read, in a quaint, childish
hand:--

SIR,--I have struck you. I apologize in writing. Your humble servant to
command, SYLVIA VICKERS.

"I wonder what book she took that out of?" he said. "'Pon my word she
must be a little cracked. 'Gad, it's a queer life for a child in this
place, and no mistake."