a shaky voice.
'I--I want to do something for you, only you won't tell me what to do.'

Kit answered her with a violent struggle for breath, and the child felt
more helpless than ever. It was just as she was making a feeble attempt
to raise him in his chair that Jill came in.

'You poor fellow!' she exclaimed, taking in the whole scene at once.
'Here, Babs, give me that piece of brown paper, and run and fetch his
medicine, will you? Poor boy! Poor Kit!'

She knelt beside him and supported him with her arm, while she wafted a
smouldering tuft of brown paper in front of him. 'Now, fetch some cushions
out of the drawing-room,' she commanded, when Barbara returned with the
medicine; and, delighted at being given something to do, the child sped
away on her errand. When she came back with her arms full of cushions,
Jill had a delightful plan to unfold.

'Ring the bell for the lamp, Babs,' she said, in her soft voice, which
was already soothing Christopher's nerves; 'and we'll have tea together
before you go. Shall we, Kit, dear?'

'It's awfully good of you,' he answered weakly. The attack was passing
off, and he was visibly cheering up. By the time tea was brought in, he
was sufficiently recovered to take the lead in his usual determined
manner; and Jill humoured him by giving in to him meekly, even consenting,
under his guidance, to toast slices of plum-cake at the end of a penknife.

'It's very extravagant, when it's Auntie Anna's plum-cake instead of the
stale stuff cook used to make; but as it's the Babe's last evening we may
be extravagant, mayn't we, Jill?' argued Christopher. 'Now, Babs, you melt
the butter; and for goodness' sake do remember you're not at home, and
don't smash the plate.'

His reminder did not wholly make the desired effect upon Babs, for when
the boys returned from the farm in a noisy tribe, flushed with the glory
of slaying, they found the 'adopted kid' scrubbing her gown with a clean
handkerchief, while Babs hung over her, covered with confusion.

'Don't worry yourself, child,' Jill was saying consolingly. 'A lump of
butter, more or less, doesn't make any difference to a frock I've worn
all the winter.'

'It just slid off the plate when I wasn't looking,' said Barbara,
penitently. 'I can't think why it didn't slide on to my frock instead
of yours.'

A chorus of merriment rang from behind.

'You ridiculous Babe!' shouted Peter. 'Why, the butter is _tired_ of being
spilled down your fro