ed _per contra_ from the funds of the charity.
"The Greycoats?" repeated Brother Copas. "But I had a mind for you
to fly higher, if you understand--"

Corona nodded.

"And so I shall; that is, uncle, if you'll teach me Latin, as you
promised."

She was easy in mind, since Miss Dickinson's canaries would be
delivered. The name "County Council" meant nothing to her, but it
had affinity with other names and titles of romance--Captain
Judgment, for instance, in _The Holy War_, and County Guy in the
poetry book--

Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh--

Since Uncle Copas had said it, Miss Dickinson's hour was assuredly
nigh.

"This is not the way, though," Corona protested. "We are walking
right away from the Greycoats!"

Brother Copas halted.

"I supposed that I was taking you back to St. Hospital."

"But you came out to put me to school, and I want to go to the
Greycoats."

He pondered a moment.

"Ah, well, have it your own way!"

They turned back toward the city. The Greycoats inhabited a long,
single-storeyed building on the eastern boundary of the Cathedral
Close, the boys and girls in separate schools under the same
high-pitched roof. As our two friends came in sight of it, Corona--
who had been running ahead in her impatience--hesitated of a sudden
and turned about.

"Uncle Copas, before we go in I want to tell you something. . . .
I was really frightened--yes, really--in that wicked house.
But I wanted to be a Greycoat all the time. I want to wear a cloak
that means I belong to Merchester, same as you and daddy."

"Lord forgive me, she's proud of us!" murmured Brother Copas.
"And I set out this morning to get her taught to despise us!"

CHAPTER XVI.

THE SECOND LETTER.

Meanwhile certain small events not unconnected with this history were
happening at St. Hospital.

At ten o'clock punctually Mr. Colt waited on the Master. This was a
part of the daily routine, but ninety-nine times in a hundred the
Chaplain's report resolved itself into a chat on the weather, the
Master's roses, some recent article in the _Church Times_ or the
_Guardian_. The talk was never very strenuous; for whereas Mr. Colt
could never learn to distinguish one rose from another, on Church
affairs or on politics the Master was hopelessly tolerant,
antiquated, incurious even. What could one do with a dear old
gentleman who, when informed of the latest, most dangerous promotion
to a bishopric, but responded