s so very, very persistent, Imp," she sad, actually turning
crimson beneath his reproachful eye.

"Don't be too hard on us, Imp," I pleaded.

"I s'pose it can't be helped now," he said, a little mollified, but
frowning sternly, nevertheless.

"No," I answered, with my eyes upon Lisbeth's lovely, blushing face,
"it certainly can't be helped now."

"And you'll never do it again?"

"Never again, Imp."

"Then I forgive you, only why--why did you do it?"

"Well, you see, my Imp, I have an old house in the country, a very cosy
old place, but it's lonely, horribly lonely, to live by one's self.
I've wanted somebody to help me to live in it for a long time, but
nobody would you know, Imp. At last our Auntie Lisbeth has promised to
take care of the house and me, to fill the desolate rooms with her
voice and sweet presence and my empty life with her life. You can't
quite understand how much this means to me now, Imp, but you will some
day, perhaps."

"But are you going to take our Auntie Lisbeth away from us?" cried
Dorothy.

"Yes, dear," I answered, "but--"

"Oh, I don't like that one bit!" exclaimed the Imp.

"But you shall come there and stay with us as often as you wish," said
Lisbeth.

"That would be perfectly beautiful!" cried Dorothy.

"Yes, but when?" inquired the Imp gloomily.

"Soon," I answered.

"Very soon!" said Lisbeth.

"Will you promise to be 'Timothy Bone, the bo'sun,' an' the 'Black
Knight,' an' 'Little-John' whenever I want you to--so help you Sam,
Uncle Dick?"

"I will, Imp."

"An' make me a long sword with a--a 'deadly point'?"

"Yes," I nodded, "and show you some real ones, too."

"Real ones?" he cried.

"Oh, yes, and armour as well; there's lots of it in the old house, you
know."

"Let's go now!" he cried, nearly upsetting the boat in his eagerness.

"Oh! O Dick!" cried Lisbeth at this moment, "Dick--there's Aunt!"

"Aunt?" I repeated.

"Aunt Agatha, and she sees us; look!"

Turning my head, I beheld a most unexpected sight. Advancing directly
upon us was the old boat, that identical, weather-beaten tub of a boat
which Lisbeth and I had come so near ending our lives together, the
which has already been told in these Chronicles. On the rowing-thwart
sat Peter, the coachman, and in the stern-sheets, very grim and stiff
in the back, her lorgnettes at her eyes, was Lady Warburton.

Escape was quite out of the question, and in half a dozen strokes of
the oar we were along