business, and say, "I can't have you this morning,
Ambrose, we must do double another day." But when the next time came it
was often the same thing over again, so that Ambrose's Latin did not get
on much.

Lately his father had said more often than ever, "I really will try to
arrange with Dr Budge," and now it had actually been done.

Now Dr Budge was an old book-worm, supposed to be engaged in writing
some mighty and learned work, who lived in a cottage on the Nearminster
road. The children knew it and its owner very well, for it was not more
than half a mile from the rectory, and they passed it whenever they
drove into Nearminster. Its casement window was generally open, so that
they could see him bending over his papers with his greenish wig pushed
back from his forehead, and his large nose almost touching the top of
his pen. The doctor was a tall, portly person with a red face, and had
the air of being deeply occupied with some inward subject, so that he
could spare no attention to outward things.

When he came to see their father, to whom he paid long visits, the
children never expected him to notice them, or even to know them apart
from each other, though he must have seen them so often. If the doctor
ventured on a name it was always the wrong one, and lately he seemed to
think it best to call them all "David," which saved trouble and which no
one thought of correcting.

And now he was to be Ambrose's master. There was something rather awful
in it, though at the same time there was a good deal to be proud of in
having a master all to one's self. Ambrose wondered what Pennie would
think of it, and wished she were at home that he might hear her opinion.

"Of course he'll call you `David,'" said Nancy, "and I should think he'd
often forget you're in the room at all. Wouldn't that be fun?"

"Father's going to take me to see him to-morrow," said Ambrose.
"Perhaps if he says very plainly `This is my son _Ambrose_,' Dr Budge
will remember."

"Not a bit likely," said Nancy. "He met me in the garden the last time
he was here, and said, `How are you, David?' Now you know I'm not a bit
like David. I don't believe he sees us at all when he looks at us."

"I think," said Ambrose, "that when people are very wise and know a
great deal, that perhaps they always get like that."

"Then I like silly people best," said Nancy; but I don't believe that's
true. Father's as wise as he can be, and he always knows peo