heard that."

"But he is a good man," said old Maisie, warming to the defence of Uncle
Mo. "He is indeed! He won't let Dave fight, only a little now and then.
But Dave says he told him, Uncle Mo did, that if ever he saw a boy hit a
little girl, he was to hit that boy at once, without stopping to think
how big he was. And he told him where! Is not that a good man?"

"Oh dear!" said Widow Thrale again, uneasily. "Won't Dave hit some boy
that's too strong for him, and get hurt?"

"I think he may, ma'am. But then ... someone _may_ take his part! I
should pray." She went on to repeat an adventure of Dave's, when he
behaved as directed to a young monster who was stuffing some abomination
into a little girl's mouth. But it ended with the words:--"The boy ran
away." Perhaps Uncle Mo had judged rightly of the class of boy that he
had in mind, as almost sure to run away.

The Pomona in Widow Thrale had gone behind a cloud during her misgivings
about Uncle Mo. The cloud passed, as the image of this boy fled from
Nemesis. He was a London boy, evidently, and up to date. The Feudal
System, as surviving at Chorlton, countenanced no such boys. The voice
of Pomona was cheerful again as she resumed Dave:--"Where, then, is the
boy, till he goes back home?"

"His aunt has got him at her mother's, at Ealing. His real
grandmother's." Pomona had a subconsciousness that this made three; an
outrageous allowance of grandmothers for any boy! But she would not say
so, as this old lady might be sensitive about her own claims, which
might be called in question if Dave's list was revised.

Ealing recalled an obscure passage in his letter, which was really an
insertion, in the text, of the address of his haven of refuge. It read,
transcribed literally:--"My grandMother is hEALing," and the
recollection of it reinforced the laugh with which Pomona pleaded to
misinterpretation. "Mother and I both thought she had cut herself," said
she.

Old Maisie, amused at Dave, made answer:--"No!--it's where he is. Number
Two, Penkover Terrace, Ealing. Penkover is very hard to recollect. So do
write it down. Write it now. I shall very likely forget it directly;
because when I get tired with talking, I swim, and the room goes
round.... Oh no--I'm not tired yet, and you do me good to talk to."

But the old lady had talked to the full extent of her tether. But even
in this short conversation the impression made upon her by this new
acquaintance was so favourab