our hearts we had not let her come. She began
to limp, just as a pilgrim, who I will not name, did when he had the
split pease in his silly, palmering shoes.

So we called a halt and looked at her feet. One of them was quite
swollen and red. Bulldogs almost always have something the matter with
their feet, and it always comes on when least required. They are not the
right breed for emergencies.

There was nothing for it but to take it in turns to carry her. She is
very stout, and you have no idea how heavy she is. A half-hearted,
unadventurous person (I name no names, but Oswald, Alice, Noel, H. O.,
Dicky, Daisy, and Denny will understand me) said, why not go straight
home and come another day without Martha? But the rest agreed with
Oswald when he said it was only a mile, and perhaps we might get a lift
home with the poor invalid. Martha was very grateful to us for our
kindness. She put her fat white arms round the person's neck who
happened to be carrying her. She is very affectionate, but by holding
her very close to you you can keep her from kissing your face all the
time. As Alice said, "Bulldogs do give you such large, wet, pink
kisses."

A mile is a good way when you have to take your turn at carrying Martha.

At last we came to a hedge with a ditch in front of it, and chains
swinging from posts to keep people off the grass and out of the ditch,
and a gate with "The Cedars" on it in gold letters. All very neat and
tidy, and showing plainly that more than one gardener was kept. There we
stopped. Alice put Martha down, grunting with exhaustedness, and said:

"Look here, Dora and Daisy, I don't believe a bit that it's his
grandmother. I'm sure Dora was right, and it's only his horrid
sweetheart. I feel it in my bones. Now, don't you really think we'd
better chuck it; we're sure to catch it for interfering. We always do."

"The cross of true love never did come smooth," said the Dentist. "We
ought to help him to bear his cross."

"But if we find her for him, and she's not his grandmother, he'll
_marry_ her," Dicky said, in tones of gloominess and despair.

Oswald felt the same, but he said, "Never mind. We should all hate it,
but perhaps Albert's uncle _might_ like it. You can never tell. If you
want to do a really unselfish action and no kid, now's your time, my
late Wouldbegoods."

No one had the face to say right out that they didn't want to be
unselfish.

But it was with sad hearts that the unselfish