y more after
next Saturday."

"Why not?"

"He's going to Pilkington's."

So now I knew the law about the thing, and we moved on together, Oliver
stretching himself consciously, and methought that even David walked
with a sedater air.

"David," said I, with a sinking, "are you going to Pilkington's?"

"When I am eight," he replied.

"And sha'n't I call you David then, and won't you play with me in the
Gardens any more?"

He looked at Bailey, and Bailey signalled him to be firm.

"Oh, no," said David cheerily.

Thus sharply did I learn how much longer I was to have of him. Strange
that a little boy can give so much pain. I dropped his hand and walked
on in silence, and presently I did my most churlish to hurt him by
ending the story abruptly in a very cruel way. "Ten years have elapsed,"
said I, "since I last spoke, and our two heroes, now gay young men,
are revisiting the wrecked island of their childhood. 'Did we wreck
ourselves,' said one, 'or was there someone to help us?' And the other
who was the younger, replied, 'I think there was someone to help us,
a man with a dog. I think he used to tell me stories in the Kensington
Gardens, but I forget all about him; I don't remember even his name.'"

This tame ending bored Bailey, and he drifted away from us, but David
still walked by my side, and he was grown so quiet that I knew a storm
was brewing. Suddenly he flashed lightning on me. "It's not true," he
cried, "it's a lie!" He gripped my hand. "I sha'n't never forget you,
father."

Strange that a little boy can give so much pleasure.

Yet I could go on. "You will forget, David, but there was once a boy who
would have remembered."

"Timothy?" said he at once. He thinks Timothy was a real boy, and is
very jealous of him. He turned his back to me, and stood alone and
wept passionately, while I waited for him. You may be sure I begged his
pardon, and made it all right with him, and had him laughing and happy
again before I let him go. But nevertheless what I said was true. David
is not my boy, and he will forget. But Timothy would have remembered.

XXIV. Barbara

Another shock was waiting for me farther down the story.

For we had resumed our adventures, though we seldom saw Bailey now. At
long intervals we met him on our way to or from the Gardens, and, if
there was none from Pilkington's to mark him, methought he looked at us
somewhat longingly, as if beneath his real knickerbockers a morsel of