p,
and found the doctor gazing at him, or, as in his own mind he put it,
threatening a similar caning to that which Mr Sibery gave him a year
before, when he dropped the big Bible on the schoolroom floor.

"Be careful, my boy, be careful," said the doctor dreamily, for he was
half lost in thought. "That damages the bindings. Take a smaller
book."

Dexter felt better, and hastily replaced the work on the shelf, taking
one of a smaller size, and returning to his seat to bend down and thrust
a finger inside his boot.

"How they do hurt!" he thought to himself; and he made a sudden
movement.

Then he checked himself.

No; 'twas a pity. They were so new, and looked so nice.

Yes, he would: they hurt so terribly; and, stooping down, he rapidly
unlaced the new boots, and pushed them off, smiling with gratification
at the relief.

Then he had another good look round for something to amuse himself with,
yawned, glanced at the doctor, dropped down on hands and knees, went
softly to the other side of the centre table, and began to creep about
with the agility of a quadruped or one of the monkey tribe.

This was delightful, and the satisfied look on the boy's face was a
study, till happening to raise his eyes, he saw that the doctor had
risen, and was leaning over the writing-table, gazing down at him with a
countenance full of wonder and astonishment combined.

"What are you doing, sir?" said the doctor sternly. "Have you lost
something?"

Dexter might have said, "Yes, a button--a marble;" but he did not; he
only rose slowly, and his late quadrupedal aspect was emphasised by a
sheepish look.

"Don't do that on the carpet, sir. You'll wear out the knees of your
trousers. Why, where are your boots?"

"On that chair, sir," said Dexter confusedly.

"Then put them on again, and get another book."

Dexter put on his boots slowly, laced them up, and then fetched himself
another book.

He returned to his seat, yawning, and glanced at the doctor again.

_Booz, booz, booz, boom_--_'m_--_'m_.

A bluebottle had flown in through the open window, bringing with it the
suggestion of warm sunshine, fields, gardens, flowers, and the blue sky
and waving trees.

"_Booz_!" said the bluebottle, and it dashed away, leaving a profound
silence, broken by the scratching of the doctor's pen.

"I say," cried Dexter excitedly; "is that your garden?"

"Yes, my boy, yes," said the doctor, without looking up from his
writing.