,
noticing her young cousin's look of utter consternation, "now, don't be
absurd, Lesbia! It's the very thing for you. Mr. and Mrs. Stockton are
friends of ours. They live in the country--quite a pretty place. A
change of air will do you good, especially to be out-of-doors the whole
day with Terry after stuffing in school all the term. You'll look after
him while his own governess has her holiday, but he won't need any
lessons except music, so it will be a holiday for you too. As I was
saying, it's pretty country, and I dare say Joan would lend you her
bicycle to take with you. You'll be interested in Mr. Stockton's
pictures. He's really quite a good artist."

An artist! Lesbia pricked up her ears at this piece of information. The
desolate prospect suddenly seemed to blossom. Moreover, she was very
fond of the country. A change from town would be a great relief.

"Perhaps I'd like a boy better than girls," she ventured, thinking of
the juniors, who had been particularly outrageous of late. "It won't be
so bad if I haven't to teach him."

"I've no doubt you'll get along very well, so it's quite decided,"
decreed Mrs. Patterson promptly. "I shall write to Mrs. Stockton to-day
and say you'll arrive next Tuesday."

Feeling rather a pawn in the hands of Fate, but somewhat consoled by the
loan of Joan's bicycle, Lesbia was duly seen off from the station by
Kitty, who popped a packet of chocolates in her pocket as she bid her
good-bye and added:

"Take a firm stand with Terry from the first. Don't let him think he's
going to have it all his own way or----"

"What do you mean?" asked Lesbia agitatedly, but the porter was already
slamming the door and waving back non-passengers from the edge of the
platform, and the train started before Kitty could complete her
sentence.

Such a disquieting hint did not present her future pupil in a favourable
light. Lesbia ate her chocolates to try and banish the uneasy
forebodings.

"After all, I don't suppose he _can_ be worse than Allie Pearson and
Edie Browne," she thought, as she flung the empty case out of the
window. "They're the absolute limit in the way of fidgets."

Mr. Stockton met her at Tunbury Station, and drove her home in a little
trap drawn by a fat lazy pony. It was already dark, so she only had
glimpses of fleeting hedgerows as they jogged along the muddy country
road. The air felt fresh though, with a bracing exhilarating quality
that made her think of soda-water