"I--I sh--shan't like it at all," quavered Miss Sophia, blinking away her
tears. "And--and it's not at all the same thing."

"No," agreed Nandy; "no, o' course not: you ha'n't got no pimples.
Oh, Miss Sophia," he went on, speaking very earnest, "would you really
like me better if I weren't so speckity?"

"Ever so much better, Nandy. You can't think what an improvement it would
be."

"'Tis only skin-deep," said Nandy. "At the bottom of my heart, miss,
I'd die for you. . . . But I can't stand it no longer. To-morrow I've
made up my mind to run home to Merry-Garden: and there, if it gives you
any pleasure, I can go on taking mud-baths on my own account."

"Merry-Garden?" said Miss Sophia. "Why, that's where Dr. Clatworthy wants
us to take tea with him to-morrow! He writes that he is inviting Miss St
Maur to bring all the girls in the top class, and he will meet us there.
. . . See, here's the letter enclosed."

"That settles it," said Nandy.

He walked home that afternoon with two letters--a hypocritical little note
from Sophia, a high polite one from Miss St. Maur. Miss St. Maur
accepted, on behalf of her senior young ladies, Dr. Clatworthy's truly
delightful invitation to take tea with him on the morrow. She herself--
she regretted to say--would be detained until late in the afternoon by
some troublesome tradesmen who were fixing new window-sashes in the
schoolroom. She could not trust them to do the work correctly except
under her supervision, and to defer it would entail a week's delay, the
schoolroom being vacant only on Saturday afternoons. The young ladies
should arrive, however, punctually at 3.30 p.m., in charge of Miss de la
Porcheraie, her excellent French instructress: she herself would follow at
5 o'clock or thereabouts, and meanwhile she would leave her charges,
in perfect confidence, to Dr. Clatworthy's polished hospitality. . . .
Those were the words. My mother--who was fond of telling the story--had
'em by heart.

III.

Nandy kept his word.

Breakfast next morning was no sooner over than he made a bolt across the
pleasure-grounds, crept through the hedge at the bottom, and went singing
down the woods towards Merry-Garden, with his heart half-lovesick and
half-gleeful, and with two thick sandwiches of bread-and-butter in his
pocket to provide against accidents. But he didn't feel altogether easy
at the thought of facing Aunt Barbree: and by and by, drawing near to the
house and