usual, but he could not go to sleep for a long time,
because he heard the front-door bell ring and afterwards a man's voice
and Helen's going on and on in the little drawing-room under the room
which was his bedroom. He went to sleep at last, and when he woke up in
the morning it was raining, and the sky was grey and miserable. He lost
his collar-stud, he tore one of his stockings as he pulled it on, he
pinched his finger in the door, and he dropped his tooth-mug, with water
in it too, and the mug was broken and the water went into his boots.
There are mornings, you know, when things happen like that. This was
one of them.

Then he went down to breakfast, which tasted not quite so nice as usual.
He was late, of course. The bacon fat was growing grey with waiting for
him, as Helen said, in the cheerful voice that had always said all the
things he liked best to hear. But Philip didn't smile. It did not seem
the sort of morning for smiling, and the grey rain beat against the
window.

After breakfast Helen said, 'Tea in the garden is indefinitely
postponed, and it's too wet for lessons.'

That was one of her charming ideas--that wet days should not be made
worse by lessons.

'What shall we do?' she said; 'shall we talk about the island? Shall I
make another map of it? And put in all the gardens and fountains and
swings?'

The island was a favourite play. Somewhere in the warm seas where palm
trees are, and rainbow-coloured sands, the island was said to be--their
own island, beautified by their fancy with everything they liked and
wanted, and Philip was never tired of talking about it. There were times
when he almost believed that the island was real. He was king of the
island and Helen was queen, and no one else was to be allowed on it.
Only these two.

But this morning even the thought of the island failed to charm. Philip
straggled away to the window and looked out dismally at the soaked lawn
and the dripping laburnum trees, and the row of raindrops hanging fat
and full on the iron gate.

'What is it, Pippin?' Helen asked. 'Don't tell me you're going to have
horrid measles, or red-hot scarlet fever, or noisy whooping-cough.'

She came across and laid her hand on his forehead.

'Why, you're quite hot, boy of my heart. Tell sister, what is it?'

'_You_ tell _me_,' said Philip slowly.

'Tell you what, Pip?'

'You think you ought to bear it alone, like in books, and be noble and
all that. But you _must_ tell