up in her chair.
Elizabeth lifted a blue-covered book from a table, sat down on the rug at her father's feet, and began to read. It was only a very little poem, as she had said—a few exquisite strange lines. When she finished she looked eagerly up at her father and—"Isn't it magical?" she asked.
"Let me see the book," said Mr. Seton, and at once became engrossed.
"It's very nice," said Miss Christie; "but your voice, Elizabeth, makes anything sound beautiful."
"Kirsty, my dear, how pretty of you!"
Elizabeth's hands were clasped round her knees, and she sat staring into the red heart of the fire as she repeated:
"Who said 'All Time's delight
Hath she for narrow bed:
Life's troubled bubble broken'?
That's what I said."
Kirsty, I love that—'Life's troubled bubble broken'."
"Say it to me Lizbeth," said Buff, who had left his book when his sister began to read aloud.
"You wouldn't understand it, sonny."
"But I like the sound of the words," Buff protested. So Elizabeth said it again.
"Who said Peacock Pie?
The old King to the Sparrow...."
"I like it," said Buff, when she had finished. "Say me another."
"Not now, son. I want to talk to Kirsty now. When you go to bed I shall read you a lovely one about a Zebra called Abracadeebra. Have you done your lessons for to-morrow? No? Well, do them now. Thomas and Billy will do them with you—and in half an hour I'll play 'Yellow Dog Dingo.'"
Having mapped out the evening for her young brother, Elizabeth rose from her lowly position on the hearth-rug, drew forward a chair, and said, "Now, Kirsty, we'll have a talk."
That Elizabeth Seton and Christina Christie should be friends seemed a most improbable thing. They were both ministers' daughters, but there any likeness ended. It seemed as if there could be nothing in common between this tall golden Elizabeth with her impulsive ways, her rapid heedless speech, her passion for poetry, her faculty for making new friends at every turn, and Christina, short, dark, and neat, with a mind as well-ordered as her raiment, suspicious of strangers and chilling with her nearest—and yet a very true friendship did exist.
"How is your mother?" asked Elizabeth.
"Mother's wonderful. Father has been in the house three days with lumbago. Jeanie has a cold too. I think it's the damp weather. This is my month of housekeeping. I wish, Elizabeth, you would tell me some new puddings. Archie says ours are so dull."
Elizabeth immediately threw herself into the subject of puddings.
"I know one new pudding, but it takes two days to make and it's very expensive. We only have it for special people. You know 'Aunt Mag,' of course? and 'Uncle Tom'? That's only 'Aunt Mag' with treacle. Semolina, sago, big rice—we call those milk things, we don't dignify them by the name of pudding. What else is there? Tarts, oh! and bread puddings, and there's that greasy kind you eat with syrup, suet dumplings. A man in the church was very ill, and the doctor said he hadn't any coating or lining or something inside him, because his wife hadn't given him any suet dumplings."
"Oh, Elizabeth!"
"A fact, I assure you," said Elizabeth. "We always have a suet dumpling once a week because of that. I'm afraid I'm not being very helpful, Kirsty. Do let's think of something quite new, only it's almost sure not to be good. That is so discouraging about the dishes one invents.... Apart from puddings, how is Archie?"
"Oh, he's quite well, and doing very well in business. He has Father's good business head."
"Yes," said Elizabeth. She did not admire anything about the Rev. Johnston Christie, least of all his business head. He was a large pompous man, with a booming voice and a hearty manner, and he had what is known in clerical circles as a "suburban charge." Every Sunday the well-dressed, well-fed congregation culled from villadom to which he ministered filled the handsome new church, and Mr. Christie's heart grew large within him as he looked at it. He was a poor preacher but an excellent organiser: he ran a church as he would have run a grocery establishment. His son Archie was exactly like him, but Christina had something of her mother, a deprecating little woman with feeble health and a sense of humour whom Elizabeth called Chuchundra after the musk-rat in the Jungle Book that could never summon up courage to run into the middle of the room.
"Yes," said Elizabeth, "I foresee a brilliant future for Archie, full of money and motor-cars and knighthoods."
"Oh! I don't know," said Christina, "but I think he has the knack of making money. How are your brothers?"
"Both well, I'm glad to say. Walter has got a new job—in the Secretariat—and finds it vastly entertaining. Alan seems keener about polo than anything else, but he's only a boy after all."
"You talk as if you were fifty at least."
"I'm getting on," said Elizabeth. "Twenty-eight is a fairly ripe age, don't you think?"
"No, I don't," said Christina somewhat shortly. Christina was thirty-five.
"Buff asked me yesterday if I remembered Mary Queen of Scots," went on Elizabeth, "and he alluded to me in conversation with Thomas as 'my elderly nasty sister.'"
"Cheeky little thing!" said Christina. "You spoil that child."
Elizabeth laughed, and by way of turning the conversation asked Christina's advice as to what would sell best at coming bazaars. At all bazaar work Christina was an expert, and she had so many valuable hints to give that long before she had come to an end of them Elizabeth was hauled away to play "Yellow Dog Dingo."
Christina had little liking for children, and it was with unconcealed horror that she watched her friend bounding from Little God Nqu (Billy) to Middle God Nquing (Buff), then to Big God Nquong (Thomas), begging to be made different from all other animals, and wonderfully popular by five o'clock in the afternoon.
It was rather an exhausting game and necessitated much shouting and rushing up and down stairs, and after everyone had had a chance of playing in the title rôle, Elizabeth sank breathless, flushed and dishevelled, into a chair.
"Well, I must say——" said Christina.
"Come on again," shouted Billy, while Thomas and Buff loped up and down the room.
"No—no," panted Elizabeth, "you're far too hot as it is. What will 'Mamma' say if you go home looking like Red Indians?"
Mr. Seton, quite undisturbed by the noise, had been engrossed in the poetry book, but now he laid it down and looked at his watch.
"I must be going," he said.
But the three boys threw themselves on him—"A bit of Willy Wud; just a little bit of Willy Wud," they pleaded.
James Seton was an inspired teller of tales, and Willy Wud was one of his creations. His adventures—and surely no one ever had stranger and more varied adventures—made a
