between Lord Brownstone Ewer and Francis Horatio Nelson Drake,
completely grown up. And from behind floated the inexpressibly sad
refrain, "Hi tiddli hi!"

This is how it happened. One morning, Jinny Jones, another hospital
nurse, had said to her, "Have you any objection, dear, to seeing a
friend of another gent, a friend of mine?"

"None in the least, dear," said Golly. "I want to see all that can be
seen, and do all that can be done in London, and know the glory
thereof. I only require that I shall be allowed to love John Gale
whenever he permits it, which isn't often, and that I may be permitted
to write simple letters to my doting relations at the rate of twelve
pages a day, giving an account--MY OWN account--of my doings. There!
Go on now! Bring on your bears."

They had visited the chambers which Lord Brownstone and Drake occupied
together, and in girlish innocence had put on the gentlemen's clothes
and danced before them. Then they all went to the theatre, where
Golly's delightful simplicity and childish ignorance of the world had
charmed them. Everything to her was new, strange, and thrilling. She
even leaned from the carriage windows to see the "wheels go round."
She was surprised at the number of people in the theatre, and insisted
on knowing if it was church, because they all sat there in their best
clothes so quietly. She believed that the play was real, and
frequently, from a stage box, interrupted the acting with explanations.
She informed the heroine of the design of the villain waiting at the
wings. And when the aged mother of the heroine was dying of starvation
in a hovel, and she threw a bag of bonbons on the stage, with the
vociferous declaration that "Lord Brownstone had just given them to
her--but--Lordy!--SHE didn't want them," they were obliged to lead her
away, closely followed by an usher and a policeman. "To think," she
wrote to John Gale, "that the audience only laughed and shouted, and
never offered to help! And yet look at the churches in London, where
they dare to preach the gospel!"

Fired by this simple letter, and alarmed by Golly's simplicity, John
Gale went to his clerical chief, Archdeacon Luxury, and demanded
permission to preach next Sunday. "Certainly," said the Archdeacon;
"you shall take my curate's place. I shall inform the congregation
that you are the son of Lord Gale. They are very particular
churchmen--all society people--and of course will be satisfied w