ard for five minutes, and then
stopped and congratulated herself that the hour must be nearly over.

"But I must play over Gran'ma's little tune," she said to herself.
"Gran'ma's so fond of it, and it is pretty, only I don't like his being
killed. Malbrook was killed, I know he was. Gran'ma told me so."

She got out an old music-book of Madam's young days, and turned to a page
on which were a number of small tunes of a few bars each, and each marked
with a name.

She began to play the old air of Malbrook, very sweetly and plaintively, so
as quite to justify Miss Goodchild's opinion that she had a taste for
music. But at the last bar Terry's little hands fell limp, and she burst
out crying.

"I know he was killed!" she said; "and what with Jocko's knees and
everything I can't bear it. I wonder if Turly would come down and sit with
me; that is if my hour isn't up."

Alas! the pitiless old clock informed her that she had still at least half
an hour of penance to undergo. Perceiving this she stole up softly to the
nursery.

"Turly, dear! Are you there, Turly?"

"Oh yes, I'm here!" said Turly. "Have you done your practising?"

"No, I haven't. I wish I had. And will you come down and sit with me,
Turly? The drawing-room is so lonely, and the time gets on so slow."

"It's silly to be lonely," said Turly. "I'm not a bit lonely here with my
bricks. But of course I'll come with you."

"Oh, thank you, Turly! Is Nursey with Gran'ma?"

"Yes."

"What does she look like, Turly?"

"Like always," said Turly.

"Is her nose long, Turly?"

"Isn't it always the same, Terry?"

"No, it isn't. When Nurse is angry her nose gets long and her mouth goes
down at the corners. And when she's pleased they both shorten up again."

"I didn't look at her as much as that," said Turly.

So Turly came and played in the drawing-room while Terry went on with her
practising. He made a play for himself which was not particularly good for
the furniture. A long train of wagons was constructed of chairs put on
their sides and one or two small old spider tables with their spindle legs
in the air. Turly dressed himself in a few of Granny's best oriental
embroideries, and armed himself with the brass fire-irons.

"It's war, you know!" he explained to Terry. "Play Malbrook again. But I'm
not going to be killed, I can tell you. I'd just like to see anybody trying
to do it."

"Oh, Turly, you must be killed, because you have no helmet! Oh, I kno