Day, Master Jeremy,'" he
remarked. Then suddenly, with a leap, he was out of bed, had crossed
the floor, pushed back the nursery door, and was sitting in the wicker
arm-chair, his naked feet kicking a triumphant dance.

"Helen! Helen!" he called. "I'm in the chair."

No sound.

"I'm eight," he shouted, "and I'm in the chair."

Mrs. Preston, breathless and exclaiming, hurried across to him.

"Oh, you naughty boy... death of cold... in your nightshirt."

"I'm eight," he said, looking at her scornfully, "and I can sit here as
long as I please."

Helen, her pigtails flapping on either shoulder, her nose red, as it
always was early in the morning, appeared at the opposite end of the
nursery.

"Nurse, he mustn't, must he? Tell him not to. I don't care how old you
are. It's my chair. Mother said--"

"No, she didn't. Mother said--"

"Yes, she did. Mother said--"

"Mother said that when--"

"Oh, you story. You know that Mother said--" Then suddenly a new,
stiffening, trusting dignity filled him, as though he had with a turn of
the head discovered himself in golden armour.

He was above this vulgar wrangling now. That was for girls. He was
superior to them all. He got down from the chair and stood, his head
up, on the old Turkey rug (red with yellow cockatoos) in front of the
roaring fire.

"You may have your old chair," he said to Helen. "I'm eight now, and I
don't want it any more... although if I do want it I shall have it," he
added.

He was a small, square boy with a pug-nosed face. His hair was light
brown, thin and stiff, so that it was difficult to brush, and although
you watered it, stood up in unexpected places and stared at you. His
eyes were good, dark brown and large, but he was in no way handsome; his
neck, his nose ridiculous. His mouth was too large, and his chin stuck
out like a hammer.

He was, plainly, obstinate and possibly sulky, although when he smiled
his whole face was lighted with humour. Helen was the only beautiful
Cole child, and she was abundantly aware of that fact. The Coles had
never been a good-looking family.

He stood in front of the fireplace now as he had seen his father do, his
short legs apart, his head up, and his hands behind his back.

"Now, Master Jeremy," the Jampot continued, "you may be eight years old,
but it isn't a reason for disobedience the very first minute, and, of
course, your bath is ready and you catching your death with naked feet,
which you've alwa