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“Good?” said Nandy, savage-like. “How would you like it? There now– I’m sorry, Miss Sophia. I forgot–and now I’ve made you cry!”

“I–I sh–shan’t like it at all,” quavered Miss Sophia, blinking away her tears. “And–and it’s not at all the same thing.”

“No,” agreed Nandy; “no, o’ course not: you ha’n’t got no pimples. Oh, Miss Sophia,” he went on, speaking very earnest, “would you really like me better if I weren’t so speckity?”

“Ever so much better, Nandy. You can’t think what an improvement it would be.”

“‘Tis only skin-deep,” said Nandy. “At the bottom of my heart, miss, I’d die for you. . . . But I can’t stand it no longer. To-morrow I’ve made up my mind to run home to Merry-Garden: and there, if it gives you any pleasure, I can go on taking mud-baths on my own account.”

“Merry-Garden?” said Miss Sophia. “Why, that’s where Dr. Clatworthy wants us to take tea with him to-morrow! He writes that he is inviting Miss St Maur to bring all the girls in the top class, and he will meet us there. . . . See, here’s the letter enclosed.”

“That settles it,” said Nandy.

He walked home that afternoon with two letters–a hypocritical little note from Sophia, a high polite one from Miss St. Maur. Miss St. Maur accepted, on behalf of her senior young ladies, Dr. Clatworthy’s truly delightful invitation to take tea with him on the morrow. She herself– she regretted to say–would be detained until late in the afternoon by some troublesome tradesmen who were fixing new window-sashes in the schoolroom. She could not trust them to do the work correctly except under her supervision, and to defer it would entail a week’s delay, the schoolroom being vacant only on Saturday afternoons. The young ladies should arrive, however, punctually at 3.30 p.m., in charge of Miss de la Porcheraie, her excellent French instructress: she herself would follow at 5 o’clock or thereabouts, and meanwhile she would leave her charges, in perfect confidence, to Dr. Clatworthy’s polished hospitality. . . . Those were the words. My mother–who was fond of telling the story–had ’em by heart.

III.

Nandy kept his word.

Breakfast next morning was no sooner over than he made a bolt across the pleasure-grounds, crept through the hedge at the bottom, and went singing down the woods towards Merry-Garden, with his heart half-lovesick and half-gleeful, and with two thick sandwiches of bread-and-butter in his pocket to provide against accidents. But he didn’t feel altogether easy at the thought of facing Aunt Barbree: and by and by, drawing near to the house and catching sight of his aunt’s sun-bonnet up among the raspberry-canes, he decided (as they say) to play for safety. So, creeping down to the front door, he slipped under it a letter which he had spent a solid hour last night in composing; and made his way to the foreshore, to loaf and smoke a pipe of stolen tobacco and, generally speaking, make the most of his holiday. The note said–

“Dear Aunt,–Do not weep for me. The sulphur-water made me sick and I could stand it no longer. So am gone for a Soger. Letters and remittances will doubtless find me if addressed to the Citadel, Plymouth. A loving heart is what I hunger for–Your affect, nephew,

Ferdinando Jewell.”

“P.S.–On 2nd thoughts I may be able to come back this evening to say farewell for ever.”

“P.S.–Don’t sit up.”

Now a boy may be a lazy good-for-nothing, and yet (if you’ll understand me) be missed from a garden where there are ladders to fix and mazzard cherries to pick; and likewise, though liable to be grumbled at, a boy has his uses in the gathering of cockles. Though she knew him to be an anointed young humbug, there’s no denying that Aunt Barbree had missed Nandy and his help. She was getting past fifty, and somehow the last ten days had reminded her of it. . . . The long and short of it was that, after a couple of hours fruit-picking–and it took her no less to get together the supply she’d reckoned on for her afternoon customers–she entered the house with a feeling of stiffness in her back and a feeling that answered to it elsewhere, that maybe Nandy was a better boy than she’d given him credit for. Upon top of this feeling she pushed open the door and spied his letter lying on the mat.