mself against
the stone mullion on either side with uplifted hands, heedless alike of
his mother's presence and of the heavy drops of rain which splattered
in at the open casement.

"Dickie, Dickie," Katherine called, in swift anxiety. "Be careful. You
will fall."

She came close, putting her arm round him. "You reckless darling," she
went on; "don't you see how dangerous the least slip would be?"

The boy straightened himself and looked round at her. His blue eyes
were alight. All the fitful brightness, all the wistful charm of the
April evening was in his face.

"But it's the only place where I can see them, and they're such
beauties," he said. "And I want to see them so much. You know we always
miss them somehow, mummy, when we go out."

Katherine was off her guard. Three separate strains of feeling
influenced her just then. First, her growing recognition of the change
in Richard, of that passing away of childhood which could not but make
for difficulty and, in a sense, for pain. Secondly, the natural
excitement of her brother's homecoming, disturbing the monotony of her
daily life, bringing, along with very actual joy, memories of a past,
well-beloved yet gone beyond recall. Lastly, the practical and
immediate fear that Dickie had come uncommonly near tumbling
incontinently out of the window. And so, being moved, she held the boy
tightly and answered rather at random, thereby provoking fate.

"Yes, my dearest, I know we always miss them somehow when we go out. It
is best so. But do pray be more careful with these high windows."

"Oh! I'm all right--I'm careful enough." His glance had gone back to
where the last of the horses passed out of sight behind the red wall of
the gardens. "But why is it best so? Ah! they're gone!" he exclaimed.

Katherine sat down on the window-seat, and Richard, clinging on to the
window-ledge, while she still held him, lowered himself into a sitting
position beside her.

"Thank you, mummy," he said. And the words cut her. They came so often
in each day, and always with the same little touch of civil dignity.
The courtesy of Richard's recognition of help given, failed to comfort
her for the fact that help was so constantly required. Lady Calmady's
sense of rebellion arose and waxed strong whenever she heard those
thanks.

"Mother," he went on, "I want to ask you something. You won't mind?"

"Do I ever mind you questioning me?" Yet she felt a certain tightening
about her heart.