name was "the same as his father's, Bertie") began industriously to
stuff. He did not, however, forget the watch or the tip. With his mouth
full he demanded both, and got them. In his delight, he warmed to
something more than fox, and I snatched this auspicious moment.
Delicately, as if walking on eggs (at sixpence each), I questioned him.
How did he like being mewed up in one wing of his own home? What did he
do to amuse himself? Wasn't it dull with no one to play with?

"Well, of course, there's Cecil," he said, munching. "I liked her at
first. She's pretty, about as pretty as you are, or maybe prettier. And
she brought me presents, just like you have. But she's in bed most of
the time now, so she's no fun any more. I sit with her sometimes, to see
she keeps still, and doesn't go to the window. She did go one day, when
I went out for a minute, because I thought she was asleep. But Mother
came and caught her at it."

"Oh, yes, Cecil!" I echoed. "That pretty girl with dark eyes, and hair
the colour of chestnuts. What relation is she to you?"

"I s'pose she's my cousin," said Bertie. "That's what she told me the
day she came--when she brought the presents. But Mother says she's no
_proper_ relation. How do _you_ know about her hair and eyes? You didn't
see her, did you? Mother'll have a fit if you did! She and Father don't
want any one to see Cecil. The minute she told them all about herself
they made her hide."

I was thinking hard. "Cecil" was the girl's name! That Lord Scarlett who
died in Australia had been Cecil. Grandmother had talked of him, and
said he was the "only decent one of the lot, though a ne'er-do-weel."
Now, the likeness of the name, and the boy's babblings, made me suspect
the plot of an old-fashioned melodrama.

"Oh, I guessed about her hair and eyes, because you said she was so
pretty; and dark eyes and auburn hair are the prettiest of all," I
assured him gaily. "I'm great at guessing things; I can guess like
magic! Now, I guess the presents she brought you were from Australia."

"So they were!" laughed Bertie. "That's what she said. And she told me
stories about things out there, before she got so weak."

"Poor Cecil! What's the matter with her?" I ventured.

"I don't know," mumbled the boy, interested in an eclair. "She cries a
lot. Mother says she's in a decline."

"Oughtn't she to see a doctor?" I wondered.

"Mother thinks a doctor'd be no good. Besides, I don't 'spect she'd let
one s