"_My_ Ayah always dave me a choccly."

Now there was no infant in London less deserving of a choccly at that moment than troublesome little Fay. "Nursery Hygiene" proclaimed the undeniable fact that sweetmeats last thing at night are most injurious.

Duty and Discipline and Self-Control should all have pointed out the evil of any indulgence of the sort. Yet Meg, with all her theories quite fresh and new, and with this excellent opportunity of putting them into practice, extracted a choccly from a box on the chest of drawers; and when the voice, "like broken music," announced for the third time, "_My_ Ayah always dave me a choccly," "So will this Ayah," said Meg, and popped it into the mouth whence the voice issued.

There was a satisfied smacking and munching for a s.p.a.ce, when the voice took up the tale:

"Once Tony had thlee----"

But what it was Tony once had "thlee" of Meg was not to know that night, for naughty little Fay fell fast asleep.

For a week Tony bathed his sister every night. Neither Jan nor Meg felt equal to facing and going through again the terrors of that first night without Ayah. Little Fay was quite good--she permitted Meg to undress her and even to put her in the little bath, but once there she always said firmly, "Tony wa.s.s me," and Tony did.

Then he burned his hand.

He was never openly and obstreperously disobedient like little Fay. On the whole he preferred a quiet life free from contention. But very early in their acquaintance Jan had discovered that what Tony determined upon that he did, and in this he resembled her so strongly that she felt a secret sympathy with him, even when such tenacity of purpose was most inconvenient.

He liked to find things out for himself, and no amount of warning or prohibition could prevent his investigations. Thus it came about that, carefully guarded as the children were from any contact with the fires, Tony simply didn't believe what was told him of their dangers.

Fires were new to him. They were so pretty, with their dancing flames, it seemed a pity to shut them in behind those latticed guards Auntie Jan was so fond of. Never did Tony see the fires without those tiresome guards and he wanted to very much.

One afternoon just before tea, while Meg was changing little Fay's frock, he slipped across to the drawing-room where Auntie Jan was busy writing a letter. Joy! the guard was off the fire; he could sit on the rug and watch it undisturbed. He made no noise, but knelt down softly in front of it and stretched out his hands to the pleasant warmth. It was the sort of fire Tony liked to watch, red at the heart, with little curling flames that were mirrored in the tiled hearth.

Jan looked up from her writing and saw him there, saw also that there was no guard, but, as little Fay had not yet come, thought Tony far too sensible to interfere with the fire in any way. She went on with her writing; then when she looked again something in the intentness of his att.i.tude caused her to say: "Be sure you don't get too near the fire, Tony; it hurts badly to be burned."

"Yes, Auntie Jan," Tony said meekly.

She wrote a few lines more, looked up, and held her breath. It would have been an easy matter even then to dash across and put on the guard; but in a flash Jan realised that to let Tony burn himself a little at that moment might save a very bad accident later on. There was nothing in his clothes to catch alight. His woollen jersey fitted closely.

Exactly as though he were going to pick a flower, with curved hand outstretched Tony tried to capture and hold one of the dancing flames.

He drew his hand back very quickly, and Jan expected a loud outcry, but none came. He sat back on the hearth-rug and rocked his body to and fro, holding the burnt right hand with his left, but he did not utter a sound.

"It does hurt, doesn't it?" said Jan.

He started at the quiet voice and turned a little puckered face towards her. "Yes," he said, with a big sigh; "but I know now."

"Come with me and I'll put something on it to make it hurt less," said Jan, and crossed to the door.

"Hadn't we better," he said, rather breathlessly, "put that thing on for fear of Fay?"

Jan carefully replaced the "thing" and took him to her room, where she bandaged the poor little hand with carron-oil and cotton-wool. The outer edge was scorched from little finger to wrist. She made no remark while she did it, and Tony leaned confidingly against her the while.

"Is that better?" she asked, when she had fastened the final safety-pin in the bandage. There was one big tear on Tony's cheek.

"It's nice and cool, that stuff. _Why_ does it hurt so, Auntie Jan? It looks so kind and pretty."

"It is kind and pretty, only we mustn't go too near. Will you be sure and tell Fay how it can hurt?"

"I'll _tell_ her," he promised, but he didn't seem to have much hope of the news acting as a deterrent.

When at bed-time Jan announced that Tony could not possibly bathe Fay because he mustn't get his hand wet or disturb the dressing, she and Meg tremblingly awaited the awful fuss that seemed bound to follow.

But Fay was always unexpected. "Then Med muss wa.s.s me," she remarked calmly. The good custom was established and Meg began to perk up again.

CHAPTER XIII

THE WHEELS OF CHANCE

Meg was out walking with the children in Kensington Gardens, and Hannah was paying the tradesmen's books. It was the only way to make Hannah take the air, to send her, as she put it, "to do the messages." She liked paying the books herself, for she always suspected Jan of not counting the change.

Jan was alone in the flat and was laying tea for the children in the dining-room when "ting" went the electric bell. She opened the door to find upon the threshold an exceedingly tall young man; a well-set-up, smart young man with square shoulders, who held out his hand to her, saying in a friendly voice: "You may just happen to remember me, Miss Ross, but probably not. Colonel Walcote's my uncle, and he's living in your house, you know. My name's Middleton ... I _hope_ you remember me, for I've come to ask a favour."

As he spoke he gave Jan his card, and on it was "Captain Miles Middleton, R. H. A.," and the addresses of two clubs.

She led him to the little drawing-room, bracing herself the while to be firm in her refusal if the Walcotes wanted the house any longer, good tenants though they were.

She was hopelessly vague about her guest, but felt she had met him somewhere. She didn't like to confess how slight her recollection was, for he looked so big and brown and friendly it seemed unkind.

He sat down, smoothed his hat, and then with an engaging smile that showed his excellent teeth, began: "I've come--it sounds rather farcical, doesn't it--about a dog?"

"A dog?" Jan repeated vaguely. "What dog?"

"Well, he's my dog at present, but I want him to be your dog--if you'll have him."

"You want to give me a dog--but why? Or do you only want me to keep him a bit for you?"

"Well, it's like this, Miss Ross; it would be cheek to ask you to keep a young dog, and when you'd had all the trouble of him and got fond of him--and you'll get awfully fond of him, if you have him--to take him away again. It wouldn't be fair, it really wouldn't ... so...."

"Wait a bit," said the cautious Jan. "What sort of a dog is he ... if it is a he...."

"He's a bull-terrier...."

"Oh, but I don't think I'm very fond of bull-terriers ... aren't they fierce and doesn't one always a.s.sociate them with public-houses? I couldn't have a fierce dog, you know, because of the two children."

"They're always nice with children," Captain Middleton said firmly. "And as for the pothouse idea--that's quite played out. I suppose it was that picture with the mug and the clay pipe. He'd _love_ the children; he's only a child himself, you know."

"A puppy! Oh, Captain Middleton, wouldn't he eat all our shoes and things and tear up all the rugs?"

"I think he's past that, I do really--he'll be a year old on Monday.

He'll be a splendid watchdog, and he's not a bit deaf--lots of 'em are, you know--and he's frightfully well-bred. Just you look at the pedigree ..." and Captain Middleton produced from his breast-pocket a folded foolscap doc.u.ment which he handed to Jan.

She gazed at it with polite interest, though it conveyed but little to her mind. The name "Bloomsbury" seemed to come over and over again.

There were many dates and other names, but "Bloomsbury" certainly prevailed, and it was evident that Captain Middleton's dog had a long pedigree; it was all quite clearly set down, and, to Jan, very bewildering.