od enough to see angels."

"_I_ think you're very good," said I. "And please be good, Mr. George,
and then the angels will fetch you, and perhaps me, and Mamma, and
perhaps Ayah, and perhaps Bustle, and perhaps Clive." Bustle was Mr.
Abercrombie's dog, and Clive was a mastiff, the dog of the regiment, and
a personal friend of mine.

"Very well, Margery dear. And now you must be good too, and you must let
me take you to bed, for it's morning now, and I have had no sleep at
all."

"Is it to-morrow now?" I asked; "because, if it's to-morrow, it's my
birthday." And I began to cry afresh, because Papa had promised that I
should dine with him, and had promised me a present also.

"I'll give you a birthday present," said my long-suffering friend; and
he began to unfasten a locket that hung at his watch-chain. It was of
Indian gold, with forget-me-nots in turquoise stones upon it. He opened
it and pulled out a photograph, which he tore to bits, and then trampled
underfoot.

"There, Margery, there's a locket for you; you can throw it into the
fire, or do anything you like with it. And I wish you many happy returns
of the day." And he finally fastened it round my neck with his
Trichinopoli watch-chain, leaving his watch loose in his
waistcoat-pocket. The locket and chain pleased me, and I suffered him to
carry me to bed. Then, as he was parting from me, I thought of my father
again, and asked:

"Do you think the angels have fetched Papa _now_, Mr. George?"

"I think they have, Margery."

Whereupon I cried myself to sleep. And this was my sixth birthday.

CHAPTER III.

THE BULLERS--MATILDA TAKES ME UP--WE FALL OUT--MR. GEORGE.

Major Buller took me home to his house after my father's death. My
father had left his affairs in his hands, and in those of a friend in
England--the Mr. Arkwright he had spoken of. I believe they were both
trustees under my mother's marriage settlement.

The Bullers were relations of mine. Mrs. Buller was my mother's cousin.
She was a kind-hearted, talkative lady, and good-looking, though no
longer very young. She dressed as gaily as my poor mother, though,
somehow, not with quite so good an effect. She copied my mother's style,
and sometimes wore things exactly similar to hers; but the result was
not the same. I have heard Mrs. Minchin say that my mother took a
malicious pleasure, at times, in wearing costumes that would have been
most trying to beauty less radiant and youthful than