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and understanding. Yes; strange, scarred man; his heart was not ungentle. He understood a child. He understood the day and the fountain’s beauty. Monica smiled at him. She would never fear him again.

Now he was giving the globe into Robin’s keeping and helping him to tip the goldfish into the water. Their hands, the small and the large, dipped slowly beneath the surface and the dark head and the fair bent together as the fish, amazed, paused at the entrance of their prison and then sped forth. Round and round they went, and, wildly it seemed, from side to side, emblems of happiness, and, looking up at her, Robin whispered: ‘Which is which, Grannie? Which is Milly and which is Tilly and Lacey?’

‘Robin!’ called an icy voice behind them. ‘Robin! Come at once! You ought not to be here at this hour!’ Icy. Like a sword; cutting down happiness. Monica turned to see Hester looking at them over the hedge. She had come down in haste, for she wore no hat, and she was pale, very pale; and angry; her eyes were the eyes of the indignant Byzantine Madonna. ‘Come at once!’ she repeated, looking at her child and setting the gate open, adding as she just glanced at her mother-in-law: ‘Let