on.

Racey looked rather at a loss. "I don't know," he said. "I should think
it was a' ogre. It _might_ just have been the boy's papa, to teach him
not to hurt flies, you know."

"That would be very stupid," said Tom.

"Well, it _might_ have been a' ogre," said Racey. "I made the story so
quick I didn't quite settle. But I'll tell you another if you like,
_all_ about ogres, kite real ones and awful dedful."

"No, thank you," said Tom, "I don't care for your stories, Racey.
They're all muddled."

Racey looked extremely hurt.

"Then I'll never tell you any more," he said. "I'll tell them all to
Audrey, and you sha'n't listen."

"Indeed," said Tom, "I can listen if I choose. And when the new nurse
comes she won't let you go on like that. She'll be vrezy cross, I know."

Racey turned to me, his eyes filled with tears.

"Audrey, _will_ the new nurse be like that?"

I turned to Tom.

"Tom," I said, "why do you say such unkind things to Racey?"

Tom nodded his head mysteriously.

"It's not unkinder to Racey than it is to us," he replied. "I'm sure the
new nurse will be cross, because I heard Mrs. Partridge say something to
Uncle Geoff on the stair to-day about that we should have somebody
'vrezy strict.' And I know that means cross."

"When did you hear that?" I asked.

"'Twas this afternoon. Uncle Geoff hadn't time to come up. He just
called out to Mrs. Partridge to ask how we were getting on. And she said
in that horrid smiley way she speaks sometimes--'Oh, _vrezy_ well, sir.
Much better since their nurse is gone. They need somebody much
stricter.' Isn't she horrid, Audrey?"

"Never mind," I said. But that was all I would say. I would not tell the
boys all I was feeling or thinking; they could hardly have understood
the depth of my anger and wounded pride, though I really don't think it
was a very bad kind of pride. I had always been trusted at home. When I
was cross or ill-tempered, mother spoke seriously to me, sometimes even
sternly, but she seemed to believe that I wanted to be good, and that I
had sense to understand things. And now to be spoken of behind my back,
and before my face too, as if I was a regularly naughty child who didn't
want to be good, and who had to be kept down by strictness, and who
wanted to make the boys naughty too--it was more than I could bear or
than I would bear.

"Mother told me to make the boys happy," I said to myself, "and I
_will_. I'll write to Pierson--to-night, wh