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“But if we find her for him, and she’s not his grandmother, he’ll marry her,” Dicky said, in tones of gloominess and despair.

Oswald felt the same, but he said, “Never mind. We should all hate it, but perhaps Albert’s uncle might like it. You can never tell. If you want to do a really unselfish action and no kid, now’s your time, my late Wouldbegoods.”

No one had the face to say right out that they didn’t want to be unselfish.

But it was with sad hearts that the unselfish seekers opened the long gate and went up the gravel drive between the rhododendrons and other shrubberies towards the house.

I think I have explained to you before that the eldest son of anybody is called the representative of the family if his father isn’t there. This was why Oswald now took the lead. When we got to the last turn of the drive it was settled that the others were to noiselessly ambush in the rhododendrons, and Oswald was to go on alone and ask at the house for the grandmother from India–I mean Miss Ashleigh.

So he did, but when he got to the front of the house and saw how neat the flower-beds were with red geraniums, and the windows all bright and speckless with muslin blinds and brass rods, and a green parrot in a cage in the porch, and the doorstep newly whited, lying clean and untrodden in the sunshine, he stood still and thought of his boots and how dusty the roads were, and wished he had not gone into the farmyard after eggs before starting that morning. As he stood there in anxious uncertainness he heard a low voice among the bushes. It said, “Hist! Oswald, here!” and it was the voice of Alice.

So he went back to the others among the shrubs, and they all crowded round their leader, full of impartable news.

“She’s not in the house; she’s here,” Alice said, in a low whisper that seemed nearly all S’s. “Close by–she went by just this minute with a gentleman.”

“And they’re sitting on a seat under a tree on a little lawn, and she’s got her head on his shoulder, and he’s holding her hand. I never saw any one look so silly in all my born,” Dicky said.

“It’s sickening,” Denny said, trying to look very manly with his legs wide apart.

“I don’t know,” Oswald whispered. “I suppose it wasn’t Albert’s uncle?”

“Not much,” Dicky briefly replied.

“Then don’t you see it’s all right. If she’s going on like that with this other fellow, she’ll want to marry him, and Albert’s uncle is safe. And we’ve really done an unselfish action without having to suffer for it afterwards.” With a stealthy movement Oswald rubbed his hands as he spoke in real joyfulness. We decided that we had better bunk unnoticed. But we had reckoned without Martha. She had strolled off limping to look about her a bit in the shrubbery. “Where’s Martha?” Dora suddenly said.

“She went that way,” pointingly remarked H. O.

“Then fetch her back, you young duffer! What did you let her go for?” Oswald said; “and look sharp. Don’t make a row.”

He went. A minute later we heard a hoarse squeak from Martha–the one she always gives when suddenly collared from behind–and a little squeal in a lady-like voice, and a man say “Hallo!” and then we knew that H. O. had once more rushed in where angels might have thought twice about it. We hurried to the fatal spot, but it was too late. We were just in time to hear H. O. say:

“I’m sorry if she frightened you. But we’ve been looking for you. Are you Albert’s uncle’s long-lost grandmother?”

” No,” said our lady, unhesitatingly.

It seemed vain to add seven more agitated actors to the scene now going on. We stood still. The man was standing up. He was a clergyman, and I found out afterwards he was the nicest we ever knew, except our own Mr. Bristow at Lewisham, who is now a canon, or a dean, or something grand that no one ever sees. At present I did not like him. He said: “No, this lady is nobody’s grandmother. May I ask in return how long it is since you escaped from the lunatic asylum, my poor child, and where your keeper is?”