a bribe of it, would I? It's very
wrong to bribe you, isn't it?"

"I don't know," said Basil. "I don't think it can be if you do it. Kiss
me, mother. I'll try to do my lessons quickly," and lifting up his rosy
face for his mother's kiss, he ran off. "But oh, how I do hate them!" he
said to himself as he ran.

After all, "they" were not so very difficult to-day, or perhaps Basil
really did try hard for once. However that may have been, the result was
a happy one. At dessert two bright little people made their appearance
in the dining-room, and before his father had time to ask him the
question he had hitherto so dreaded, the boy burst out with the good
news--

"All done, father, every one, more than half an hour ago."

"Yes," said Blanche complacently, "he's been _werry_ good. He's put his
fingers in his ears, and kept bumming to himself _such_ a lot, and he
hasn't played the vi'lin one time."

"Played the violin!" repeated her father. "What does she mean? You
didn't tell me Basil had already be----" he went on, turning to the
children's mother; but she hastily interrupted him.

"Blanche means playing an imaginary violin," she said, smiling. "Ever
since Basil heard Signor L---- at Tarnworth, his head has been running
on violins so, that he stops in the middle of his lessons to refresh
himself with a little inaudible music."

As she spoke she got up and moved towards the door.

"Bring your biscuits and fruit into the library, children," she said.
"You can eat them there. I'm not going to play to you this evening.
We're going to talk instead."

Up jumped Basil.

"I don't want any fruit," he said, "I really don't. Blanche, you stay
with father and eat all you want. I want to be a little while alone with
mother in the library. Mayn't I, mother?" he added coaxingly. "Blanche
doesn't mind."

"You are really very complimentary to _me_," said his father, laughing.
"Why should Blanche mind?"

"I doesn't," said Blanche, very contentedly watching her father peeling
a pear for her. So Basil and his mother went off together for their
talk.

"About the 'something nice,' mother?" began Basil.

"Well, my boy, I'm quite ready to tell you. Mrs. Marchcote was here
to-day. You know who I mean--the lady who lives in that pretty house at
the end of Tarnworth High Street. You pass it every morning going to
school."

"I know," said Basil, nodding his head. "But I don't care about Mrs.
Marchcote, mother. Is she going to hav