This he proceeded to do by slow degrees, a finger at a time, till the heavy work was supported only by the left and right forefingers, the rounded back exactly on the highest point of his cranium.

"All right," said Dexter to himself, supremely happy in his success, and with a quick movement he let his hands drop to his lap.

For one solitary moment the great quarto volume remained balanced exactly; then, as a matter of course, it opened all at once.

_Flip! flop! bang_!

The book had given him two boxes on the sides of the head, and then, consequent upon his sudden effort to save it, made a leap, and came heavily upon the floor.

Dexter's face was scarlet as he dropped upon his knees to pick it up, and found the doctor gazing at him, or, as in his own mind he put it, threatening a similar caning to that which Mr Sibery gave him a year before, when he dropped the big Bible on the schoolroom floor.

"Be careful, my boy, be careful," said the doctor dreamily, for he was half lost in thought. "That damages the bindings. Take a smaller book."

Dexter felt better, and hastily replaced the work on the shelf, taking one of a smaller size, and returning to his seat to bend down and thrust a finger inside his boot.

"How they do hurt!" he thought to himself; and he made a sudden movement.

Then he checked himself.

No; 'twas a pity. They were so new, and looked so nice.

Yes, he would: they hurt so terribly; and, stooping down, he rapidly unlaced the new boots, and pushed them off, smiling with gratification at the relief.

Then he had another good look round for something to amuse himself with, yawned, glanced at the doctor, dropped down on hands and knees, went softly to the other side of the centre table, and began to creep about with the agility of a quadruped or one of the monkey tribe.

This was delightful, and the satisfied look on the boy's face was a study, till happening to raise his eyes, he saw that the doctor had risen, and was leaning over the writing-table, gazing down at him with a countenance full of wonder and astonishment combined.

"What are you doing, sir?" said the doctor sternly. "Have you lost something?"

Dexter might have said, "Yes, a b.u.t.ton--a marble;" but he did not; he only rose slowly, and his late quadrupedal aspect was emphasised by a sheepish look.

"Don't do that on the carpet, sir. You'll wear out the knees of your trousers. Why, where are your boots?"

"On that chair, sir," said Dexter confusedly.

"Then put them on again, and get another book."

Dexter put on his boots slowly, laced them up, and then fetched himself another book.

He returned to his seat, yawning, and glanced at the doctor again.

_Booz, booz, booz, boom_--_'m_--_'m_.

A bluebottle had flown in through the open window, bringing with it the suggestion of warm sunshine, fields, gardens, flowers, and the blue sky and waving trees.

"_Booz_!" said the bluebottle, and it dashed away, leaving a profound silence, broken by the scratching of the doctor's pen.

"I say," cried Dexter excitedly; "is that your garden?"

"Yes, my boy, yes," said the doctor, without looking up from his writing.

"May I go out in it?"

"Certainly, my boy. Yes," said the doctor, without looking up, though there was the quick sound of footsteps, and, with a bound, Dexter was through the open French window, and out upon the lawn.

The doctor did not heed the lapse of time, for he was intent upon his writing, and an hour had pa.s.sed when the door opened and Helen returned.

"Now I am at liberty, papa," she said; "and--where is Dexter?"

"Eh? The boy? Bless me, I thought he was here!"

_Smash! Tinkle_!

The sound of breaking gla.s.s, and the doctor leaped to his feet, just as a loud gruff voice sounded--

"Here, you just come down."

"Copestake!" cried the doctor. "Why, what is the matter out there!"

CHAPTER EIGHT.

OLD DAN'L IS WROTH.

Mr Grayson's was the best garden for twenty miles round.

The Coleby people said so, and they ought to have known.

But Dan'l Copestake said it was all nonsense. "Might be made a good garden if master wasn't so close," he used to say to everybody. "Wants more money spent on it, and more hands kept. How'm I to keep a place like that to rights with only two--me and a lab'rer, under me, and Peter to do the sweeping?"

Keep it to rights or not, it was to Helen Grayson four acres of delight, and she was to blame for a great deal which offended Dan'l Copestake, the head-gardener.

"Papa," it would be, "did you give orders for that beautiful privet hedge to be cut down!"

"Eh? no, my dear, Copestake said it kept the light off some of those young trees, and I said he might cut it down."

"Oh, do stop him," cried Helen. "It will take years to grow up, and this past year it has been delightful, with its sweet-scented blossom and beautiful black berries."

So it was with scores of things. Helen wanted to see them growing luxuriantly, Dan'l Copestake loved to hash and chop them into miserably cramped "specimints," as he called them, and the doctor got all the blame.

But what a garden! It was full of old-fashioned flowers in great clumps, many of them growing, to Dan'l's disgust, down among the fruit and vegetables.

There were flowering shrubs and beautiful conifers, a great mulberry-tree on the mossy lawn, and a huge red brick wall all round, literally covered with trained trees, which in their seasons were ma.s.ses of white bloom, or glowing with purple and golden plums, and light red, black, or yellowy pink cherries, and great fat pears, while, facing the south, there were dozens of trees of peaches, nectarines, and downy golden apricots.

As to the apples, they grew by the bushel, almost by the ton; and for strawberries and the other lower fruits there was no such garden near.

Then there was Helen's conservatory, always full of sweet-scented flowers, and the vinery and pits, where the great purple and amber bunches hung and ripened, and the long green cuc.u.mber and melon came in their good time.