e blank wall would not be more impervious to his
explanations than the bunch of human hostility that peered over its
coping; he wisely decided to withhold his peace overtures till a more
hopeful occasion.

Two days later he ransacked the best sweet shop in the neighbouring
market town for a box of chocolates that by its size and contents should
fitly atone for the dismal deed done under the oak tree in the meadow.
The two first specimens that were shown him he hastily rejected; one had
a group of chickens pictured on its lid, the other bore the portrait of a
tabby kitten. A third sample was more simply bedecked with a spray of
painted poppies, and Octavian hailed the flowers of forgetfulness as a
happy omen. He felt distinctly more at ease with his surroundings when
the imposing package had been sent across to the grey house, and a
message returned to say that it had been duly given to the children. The
next morning he sauntered with purposeful steps past the long blank wall
on his way to the chicken-run and piggery that stood at the bottom of the
meadow. The three children were perched at their accustomed look-out,
and their range of sight did not seem to concern itself with Octavian's
presence. As he became depressingly aware of the aloofness of their gaze
he also noted a strange variegation in the herbage at his feet; the
greensward for a considerable space around was strewn and speckled with a
chocolate-coloured hail, enlivened here and there with gay tinsel-like
wrappings or the glistening mauve of crystallised violets. It was as
though the fairy paradise of a greedyminded child had taken shape and
substance in the vegetation of the meadow. Octavian's bloodmoney had
been flung back at him in scorn.

To increase his discomfiture the march of events tended to shift the
blame of ravaged chicken-coops from the supposed culprit who had already
paid full forfeit; the young chicks were still carried off, and it seemed
highly probable that the cat had only haunted the chicken-run to prey on
the rats which harboured there. Through the flowing channels of servant
talk the children learned of this belated revision of verdict, and
Octavian one day picked up a sheet of copy-book paper on which was
painstakingly written: "Beast. Rats eated your chickens." More ardently
than ever did he wish for an opportunity for sloughing off the disgrace
that enwrapped him, and earning some happier nickname from his three
unsparing