splendid to be 'Miss' anything. One might as
well say 'Miss Joan of Arc' or 'Miss Diana of the Ephesians.' But of
course I won't call you 'Christobel' if you would rather not."

"You quite absurd boy!" said the Aunt, laughing. "Call me anything you
like--just for your seven days. But you have not yet told me the
meaning or significance of these seven days."

The Boy sat forward, eagerly.

"It's like this," he said. "I have always loved the story of how the
army of Israel marched round Jericho during seven days. It appeals to
me. The well-garrisoned, invincible city, with its high walls and
barred gates. The silent, determined army, marching round it, once
every day. Apparently nothing was happening; but, in reality, their
faith, enthusiasm, and will-power were undermining those mighty walls.
And on the seventh day, when they marched round seven times to the
blast of the priestly trumpets; at the seventh time, the ordeal of
silence was over; leave was given to the great silent host to shout.
So the rams' horns sounded a louder blast than ever; and then, with all
the pent-up enthusiasm born of those seven days of silent marching, the
people shouted! Down fell the walls of Jericho, and up the conquerors
went, right into the heart of the citadel.... _I_ am prepared to march
round in silence, during seven days; but on the seventh day, Jericho
will be taken."

"_I_ being Jericho, I conclude," remarked the Aunt, dryly. "I cannot
say I have particularly noticed the silence. But that part of the
programme would be decidedly dull; so we will omit it, and say, from
the first: 'little Boy Blue, come blow me your horn!'"

"I shall blow it all right, on the seventh day," said the Boy, "and
when I do, you will hear it."

He got up, came across, and knelt by the arm of her chair.

"I shall walk right up into the heart of the citadel," he said, "when
the gates fly open, and the walls fall down; and there I shall find
you, my Queen; and together we shall 'inherit the kingdom.' O dear
unconquered Citadel! O beautiful, golden kingdom! Don't you wish it
was the seventh day _now_, Christobel?"

His mouth looked so sweet, as he bent over her and said "Christo_bel_,"
with a queer little accent on the final syllable, that the Aunt felt
momentarily dizzy.

"Go back to your chair, at once, Boy," she whispered.

And he went.

Neither spoke a word, for some minutes. The Boy lay back, watching the
mysterious moving of