r a baby's. "It's the j-jam I
was thinking of," he sniffed. "Once a pal of mine and I were playing
the fool in old Mrs. Prettyman's garden, pretending to steal the
plums, and giving her duck bits of bread steeped in beer to make it
s-squiffy (a duck can be just as drunk as a chap). She didn't mind a
bit. She was a regular old brick, and gave us a jolly good tea and a
pot of jam to take away.... And now she's dead and--and...." Carnaby's
feelings became too much for him again, and a handkerchief that had
seen better and much cleaner days came into play. Lavendar flung an
arm round the boy's shoulder.

"This kind of regret comes to us all, Carnaby," he said. "I don't
suppose there's a man with a heart in his breast who hasn't sometime
had to say to himself, I might have done better: I might have been
kinder: it's too late now! But it's never too late!" added Lavendar
under his breath--"not where Love is!"

The shower was over, and though the sun had not come out, a pleasant
light lay upon the river as the friends walked down; upon the river
beyond which old Lizzie Prettyman was sleeping so peacefully, the
sleep of kings and beggars, and just and unjust, and rich and poor
alike. Carnaby had dried his eyes but continued in a pensive mood.

"Cousin Robin's still angry with me about the tree," he said,
uncertainly.

"She won't be angry long!" Lavendar assured him. "You and your Cousin
Robin are going to be firm friends, friends for life."

Carnaby seemed a good deal comforted. "Mind you don't tell her I
blubbered!" he said in sudden alarm. "Swear!"

"She wouldn't think a bit the worse of you for that!" said Lavendar.

"Swear, though!" repeated Carnaby in deadly earnest.

And Lavendar swore, of course.

* * * * *

But an influence very unlike Lavendar's and a spirit very different
from Robinette's enfolded Carnaby de Tracy in his home and fought, as
it were, for his soul. That night, after the last lamp had been put
out by the careful Bates, and after Benson had bade a respectful
good-night to her mistress, a light still burned in Mrs. de Tracy's
room. Presently, carried in her hand, it flitted out along the silent
passages, past rows of doors which were closed upon empty rooms or
upon unconscious sleepers, till it came to Carnaby's door; to the
Boys' Room, as that far-away and most unluxurious apartment had always
been called. Mrs. de Tracy was making a pilgrimage to the s