k, my child. Here 's a nice story I can
recommend you--_Treasure Island_, by Louis Stevenson.'

'I hate reading,' she said.

'Well, I'm afraid I can't help you, dear. I'm frightfully busy, and
shall not get to bed until past midnight. Taking up this new work
means a great deal, and you know, my Flower Girl, your Dumpy Dad, as
you like to call him, is the very last person in the world to do a
thing by halves. If I have to sit up till morning, I must do so in
order to be prepared for Dundree and Lord Ian to-morrow. Perhaps,
dear, you had best kiss me and say good-night.'

'Daddy--daddy--I 'm so--miserable!'

'Sorry, my child; but I can't see why you should be. You have all the
comforts that love and sympathy can bestow upon you.'

'No, no; I am alone,' half sobbed Hollyhock.

'Don't get hysterical, my child. That is really very bad for you; but,
anyhow, I 've no time to waste now over a little girl who is surrounded
by blessings.'

'If Daddy Dumps goes on much longer in that strain I shall absolutely
begin to hate him,' thought the furious child. 'The bare idea of his
_thinking_ of talking to me as he has done.--No, Curfew, _don't_! Put
your cold nose away.'

Curfew heaved another heavy sigh and lay closer to Tocsin, and with a
smaller portion of his tail on Hollyhock's dress.

Now the olden custom at The Garden and The Paddock--that lovely custom
which had suddenly ceased--was music, dancing, games, fun, shrieks of
laughter from Precious Stones and Flower Girls, the hearty peal of a
man's voice when he was thoroughly enjoying himself, the gentle,
restrained merriment of a lady. This lady was Mrs Constable, who was
now going to be a kindergarten teacher, forsooth! And this man was
Dumpy Dad, who was going to be an agent, indeed! No wonder the girl
and the dogs felt lonely. The end of the happy evenings had arrived.
One evening used to be spent at The Garden, the next at The Paddock;
and then the delightful good-byes, the cheerful talk about the early
meeting on the morrow, and if it was the evening for The Paddock, the
lively and merry walk home with Daddy Dumps and the other Flower Girls.

Oh, how things were changed! What an unbearable woman Aunt Agnes was!
What a horror was Mrs Macintyre! Had not those two between them simply
swept four of the Flower Girls out of sight, and _all_ the Precious
Stones; and, in addition, had not Dumpy Dad and Aunt Cecilia undertaken
some kind of menial work with