hut, Mark sprang
up, slid back the bureau top, and began to write his letter. It was hard
work.

"DEAR MRS. STORMER,

"My guardian wishes me to beg you and Mr. Stormer to pay us a visit as
soon as you come back from the Tyrol. Please tell Mr. Stormer that only
the very best fishermen--like him--can catch our trout; the rest catch
our trees. This is me catching our trees (here followed a sketch).
My sister is going to be married to-morrow, and it will be disgusting
afterwards unless you come. So do come, please. And with my very best
greetings,

"I am,

"Your humble servant,

"M. LENNAN."

When he had stamped this production and dropped it in the letter-box, he
had the oddest feeling, as if he had been let out of school; a desire
to rush about, to frolic. What should he do? Cis, of course, would
be busy--they were all busy about the wedding. He would go and saddle
Bolero, and jump him in the park; or should he go down along the river
and watch the jays? Both seemed lonely occupations. And he stood in the
window--dejected. At the age of five, walking with his nurse, he had
been overheard remarking: "Nurse, I want to eat a biscuit--ALL THE WAY I
want to eat a biscuit!" and it was still rather so with him perhaps--all
the way he wanted to eat a biscuit. He bethought him then of his
modelling, and went out to the little empty greenhouse where he kept his
masterpieces. They seemed to him now quite horrible--and two of them,
the sheep and the turkey, he marked out for summary destruction. The
idea occurred to him that he might try and model that hawk escaping with
the little rabbit; but when he tried, no nice feeling came, and flinging
the things down he went out. He ran along the unweeded path to the
tennis ground--lawn tennis was then just coming in. The grass looked
very rough. But then, everything about that little manor house was left
rather wild and anyhow; why, nobody quite knew, and nobody seemed to
mind. He stood there scrutinizing the condition of the ground. A sound
of humming came to his ears. He got up on the wall. There was Sylvia
sitting in the field, making a wreath of honeysuckle. He stood very
quiet and listened. She looked pretty--lost in her tune. Then he slid
down off the wall, and said gently:

"Hallo!"

She looked round at him, her eyes very wide open.

"Your voice is jolly, Sylvia!"

"Oh, no!"

"It is. Come and climb a tree!"

"Where?"

"In the park, of course."

They were some