ild had rammed its fists tightly
into its eye-sockets and nothing could be seen of its face but a widely
gaping mouth, the recognition was in itself almost an act of faith.

"Is he glad to get back to Daddy and Mummy again?" crooned Mrs. Momeby;
the preference which the child was showing for its dust and buttercup
distractions was so marked that the question struck Clovis as being
unnecessarily tactless.

"Give him a ride on the roly-poly," suggested the father brilliantly,
as the howls continued with no sign of early abatement. In a moment
the child had been placed astride the big garden roller and a
preliminary tug was given to set it in motion. From the hollow depths
of the cylinder came an earsplitting roar, drowning even the vocal
efforts of the squalling baby, and immediately afterwards there crept
forth a white-pinafored infant with a mop of tow-coloured hair tied
over one temple with a pale blue ribbon. There was no mistaking either
the features or the lung-power of the new arrival.

"Our own little Erik," screamed Mrs. Momeby, pouncing on him and nearly
smothering him with kisses; "did he hide in the roly-poly to give us
all a big fright?"

This was the obvious explanation of the child's sudden disappearance
and equally abrupt discovery. There remained, however, the problem of
the interloping baby, which now sat whimpering on the lawn in a
disfavour as chilling as its previous popularity had been unwelcome.
The Momebys glared at it as though it had wormed its way into their
short-lived affections by heartless and unworthy pretences. Miss
Gilpet's face took on an ashen tinge as she stared helplessly at the
bunched-up figure that had been such a gladsome sight to her eyes a few
moments ago.

"When love is over, how little of love even the lover understands,"
quoted Clovis to himself.

Rose-Marie was the first to break the silence.

"If that is Erik you have in your arms, who is--that?"

"That, I think, is for you to explain," said Mrs. Momeby stiffly.

"Obviously," said Clovis, "it's a duplicate Erik that your powers of
faith called into being. The question is: What are you going to do
with him?"

The ashen pallor deepened in Rose-Marie's cheeks. Mrs. Momeby clutched
the genuine Erik closer to her side, as though she feared that her
uncanny neighbour might out of sheer pique turn him into a bowl of
gold-fish.

"I found him sitting in the middle of the road," said Rose-Marie weakly.

"You can