he would think--well, goodness only knew
what she would think. The other three children felt the same.

'I should like to see them,' said a very nice lady, whose friends
had disappointed her, and who hoped that these might be belated
contributions to her poorly furnished stall.

She looked inquiringly at Robert, who said, 'With pleasure, don't
mention it,' and dived back under Mrs Biddle's stall.

'I wonder you encourage such behaviour,' said Mrs Biddle. 'I always
speak my mind, as you know, Miss Peasmarsh; and, I must say, I am
surprised.' She turned to the crowd. 'There is no entertainment here,'
she said sternly. 'A very naughty little boy has accidentally hurt
himself, but only slightly. Will you please disperse? It will only
encourage him in naughtiness if he finds himself the centre of
attraction.'

The crowd slowly dispersed. Anthea, speechless with fury, heard a nice
curate say, 'Poor little beggar!' and loved the curate at once and for
ever.

Then Robert wriggled out from under the stall with some Benares brass
and some inlaid sandalwood boxes.

'Liberty!' cried Miss Peasmarsh. 'Then Charles has not forgotten, after
all.'

'Excuse me,' said Mrs Biddle, with fierce politeness, 'these objects are
deposited behind MY stall. Some unknown donor who does good by stealth,
and would blush if he could hear you claim the things. Of course they
are for me.'

'My stall touches yours at the corner,' said poor Miss Peasmarsh,
timidly, 'and my cousin did promise--'

The children sidled away from the unequal contest and mingled with
the crowd. Their feelings were too deep for words--till at last Robert
said--

'That stiff-starched PIG!'

'And after all our trouble! I'm hoarse with gassing to that trousered
lady in India.'

'The pig-lady's very, very nasty,' said Jane.

It was Anthea who said, in a hurried undertone, 'She isn't very nice,
and Miss Peasmarsh is pretty and nice too. Who's got a pencil?'

It was a long crawl, under three stalls, but Anthea did it. A large
piece of pale blue paper lay among the rubbish in the corner.

She folded it to a square and wrote upon it, licking the pencil at every
word to make it mark quite blackly: 'All these Indian things are for
pretty, nice Miss Peasmarsh's stall.' She thought of adding, 'There is
nothing for Mrs Biddle;' but she saw that this might lead to suspicion,
so she wrote hastily: 'From an unknown donna,' and crept back among the
boards and trestles to joi