" Cyril went on,--"salt, please, and mustard--I
must have something to make this mush go down,--if it was Indians,
they'd have been infesting the place long before this--you know they
would. I believe it's the fine day."

"Then why did the Sammyadd say we'd let ourselves in for a nice thing?"
asked Anthea. She was feeling very cross. She knew she had acted with
nobility and discretion, and after that it was very hard to be called a
little silly, especially when she had the weight of a burglared
missionary-box and about seven-and-fourpence, mostly in coppers, lying
like lead upon her conscience.

There was a silence, during which cook took away the mincy plates and
brought in the pudding. As soon as she had retired, Cyril began again.

"Of course I don't mean to say," he admitted, "that it wasn't a good
thing to get Martha and the Lamb out of the way for the afternoon; but
as for Red Indians--why, you know jolly well the wishes always come that
very minute. If there was going to be Red Indians, they'd be here now."

"I expect they are," said Anthea; "they're lurking amid the undergrowth,
for anything you know. I do think you're most unkind."

"Indians almost always _do_ lurk, really, though, don't they?" put in
Jane, anxious for peace.

"No, they don't," said Cyril tartly. "And I'm not unkind, I'm only
truthful. And I say it was utter rot breaking the water-jug; and as for
the missionary-box, I believe it's a treason-crime, and I shouldn't
wonder if you could be hanged for it, if any of us was to split"--

"Shut up, can't you?" said Robert; but Cyril couldn't. You see, he felt
in his heart that if there _should_ be Indians they would be entirely
his own fault, so he did not wish to believe in them. And trying not to
believe things when in your heart you are almost sure they are true, is
as bad for the temper as anything I know.

"It's simply idiotic," he said, "talking about Indians, when you can see
for yourself that it's Jane who's got her wish. Look what a fine day it
is----_OH!_--"

He had turned towards the window to point out the fineness of the
day--the others turned too--and a frozen silence caught at Cyril, and
none of the others felt at all like breaking it. For there, peering
round the corner of the window, among the red leaves of the Virginia
creeper, was a face--a brown face, with a long nose and a tight mouth
and very bright eyes. And the face was painted in coloured patches. It
had long black hai