most, and tied it neatly round the wounded head, leaving two
long ends which stood up like rabbit's ears. A gust of April wind
wagged them comically, and made mock of the sorrowful, grubby face
underneath. Even Frances, who was only nine herself, must have seen
that the sorrow was not the ordinary childish thing that came and went,
leaving no trace. In a way it was always there. When he was not
laughing and shouting you saw it--a careworn, anxious look, as though
he were always afraid something might pounce out on him. It ought to
have been pathetic, but somehow or other it was not. For one thing, he
was not an angel-child, bearing oppression meekly. He was much more
like a yellow-haired imp waiting sullenly for a chance to pounce back,
and the whole effect of him was at once furtive and obstinate. Indeed,
anyone who knew nothing of the Stonehouse temper and duns and forgotten
birthdays would have dismissed him as an ugly, disagreeable little boy.

But Frances Wilmot, who knew nothing of these things either, crouched
down beside him, her arm about his shoulder.

"Poor Robert!"

He began to hiccough again. He had to clench his teeth and his fists
not to betray the fact that the hiccoughs were really convulsively
swallowed sobs asserting themselves. He wanted to confide in her, but
if she knew the truth about his home and his people she wouldn't play
with him any more. She would know then that he wasn't nice. And
besides, he had some dim notion of protecting her from the things he
knew.

"You t-t-tied me up jolly well," he said. "It's comfy now. It was
aching hard."

"I like tying up things," she explained easily, "You see, I'm going to
be a doctor."

The rabbit's ears stopped waving for a minute in sheer astonishment.

"Girls aren't doctors."

"Yes, they are. Heaps of them. I'm reading up already, in that book.
It's all about first-aid. There's the bandage I did for you. You can
read how it's done."

He couldn't. And he was ashamed again. In his shame he began to
swagger.

"My father's a doctor--awfully clever----"

"Is he? How jolly! Why didn't you tell me? Has he lots of patients?"

"Lots. All over the world. But he doesn't think much of other
doctors. L-licensed h-humbugs, he calls them."

She drew away a little, her face between her hands, and he felt that
somehow he had failed again--that she had slipped through his fingers.
If only for a moment she had looked up to him and