it was all Master Dave's telling, and thought it had happened to
herself."

"Thought what had?"

"I mean, thought _she_ had been one of those two little kiddies in
violet frocks...."

"Ah, dear me--my dear sister that died out in Australia--my darling
Maisie!"

"Hay--what's that? Your darling what? What name did you say?"

"Maisie."

"There we have it--Maisie!" The doctor threw his forefinger to Granny
Marrable, in theory; it remained attached to his hand in practice.
"That's _her_ name. That's what it was all cooked up out of. Maisie!" He
was so satisfied with this little piece of shrewd detective insight that
he forgot for the moment how thoroughly he knew the contrary.

Granny Marrable seemed to demur a little, but was brought to order by
the drastic argument that it _must_ have been that, _because_ it could
not have been anything else. By this time the doctor had recollected
that he was not in a position to indulge in the luxury of incredulity.

"At least," said he, "I should have said so, only it doesn't do to be
rash. One has to look at a thing of this sort all round." He paused a
moment with his eyes on the ceiling, while his fingers played on the arm
of his chair the tune, possibly, of a Hymn to Circumspection. Then he
looked suddenly at the old lady. "You must have told the small boy a
great deal about the mill-model. _You_ told him about Muggeridge, didn't
you say, and the horses? Not your daughter, I mean?"

"Sure! Mr. Pitt and Mr. Fox."

"Tell him anything else about Muggeridge?"

"Well, now--did I?... No--I should say not.... I was trying to think
what I would have remembered to tell. For you must bear in mind, doctor,
we were but young children when Muggeridge went away, and Axtell came,
after that.... No. I could _not_ speak to having said a word about
Muggeridge, beyond his bare name. That I could not."

The doctor did not interrupt his witness's browsings in the pastures of
memory; but when she deserted them, saying she had found nothing to
crop, said suddenly:--"Didn't tell him about Muggeridge and the other
lady, who wasn't Mrs. Muggeridge?"

"Now Lard a mercy, doctor, whatever do ye take me for? And all these
years you've known me! Only the _idea_ of it!--to tell a young child
that story! Why--what would the baby have thought I meant? Fie for shame
of yourself, that's what _I_ say!" A very small amount of indignation
leavened a good deal of hilarity in this. The old lady enjoyed the