ir, as I say; yet I was not happy. The words of the Duchess
seemed everywhere about me.

"You are become the object of her bitterest scorn by now," sobbed the
wind.

"You are become," etc., etc., moaned the river. It was therefore with
no little trepidation that I looked forward to my meeting with Lisbeth.

It was this moment that the bushes parted and a boy appeared. He was a
somewhat diminutive boy, clad in a velvet suit with a lace collar, both
of which were plentifully bespattered with mud. He carried his shoes
and stockings beneath one arm, and in the other hand swung a hazel
branch. He stood with his little brown legs well apart, regarding me
with a critical eye; but when at length he spoke his attitude was
decidedly friendly.

"Hallo, man!"

"Hallo," I returned; "and whom may you be?"

"Well, my real name is Reginald Augustus, but they call me 'The Imp.'"

"I can well believe it," I said, eyeing his muddy person.

"If you please, what is an imp?"

"An imp is a sort of an--angel."

"But," he demurred, after a moment's thought, "I haven't got wings an'
things--or a trumpet."

"Your kind never do have wings and trumpets."

"Oh, I see," he said; and sitting down began to wipe the mud from his
legs with his stockings.

"Rather muddy, aren't you?" I hinted. The boy cast a furtive glance at
his draggled person.

"'Fraid I'm a teeny bit wet, too," he said hesitatingly. "You see,
I've been playing at 'Romans' an' I had to wade, you know, because I
was the standard bearer who jumped into the sea waving his sword an'
crying, 'Follow me!' You remember him, don't you?--he's in the history
book."

"To be sure," I nodded; "a truly heroic character. But if you were the
Romans, where were the ancient Britons?"

"Oh, they were the reeds, you know; you ought to have seen me slay
them. It was fine; they went down like--like--"

"Corn before a sickle," I suggested.

"Yes, just!" he cried; "the battle raged for hours."

"You must be rather tired."

"'Course not," he answered, with an indignant look. "I'm not a
girl--and I'm nearly nine, too."

"I gather from your tone that you are not partial to the sex--you don't
like girls, eh, Imp?"

"Should think not," he returned; "silly things, girls are. There's
Dorothy, you know; we were playing at executions the other day--she was
Mary Queen of Scots an' I was the headsman. I made a lovely axe with
wood and silver paper, you know; and when I cut her