The boy leaned over the well, and peered into it;—­the little girl bent forward, as if to do the same, but drew back again.

“Take hold of my hand, Mark,” said she, “and let me lean over as you do.”

“What do you want to look in for?” asked the boy,—­“there is nothing to see.  Oh, yes,” continued he, mischievously, “there is a horrid dragon, just such as St. George fought with, lying all curled up in the bottom of the well, with fire and smoke coming out of his mouth.”

Rosamond Purcill was too true a descendant of old Geoffrey to be frightened at the thought of a dragon.  She caught hold of Mark’s arm to steady herself, and leaned over the well.

“Let me see! let me see!” cried she, eagerly.

Mark made one or two feints of pushing her in, but at last held her firmly by the waist, while she looked in vain for the fabulous monster below.

“Where is he, Mark?  I don’t see anything, and I don’t believe you saw him.”

“Oh, yes, I did,” said Mark;—­“there, don’t you see the end of his tail sticking out from under the largest stone?  May-be he has had one little girl for breakfast this morning, and don’t care about another for luncheon, or else he would spring up after you, and gobble you up in a minute.”

“What stories, Mark!  Aunt Eleanor says there are no dragons, nor ever were.”

“Pooh!” retorted Mark, contemptuously,—­“Aunt Eleanor has not seen everything that there is to be seen in the world.  Look again, Rosy.”

Again the little curly head was bent over the well, somewhat puzzled which to believe, Aunt Eleanor or Mark, but half-inclined to credit Mark’s eyes rather than Aunt Eleanor’s words.

“Do you think that can be one of his scales?” asked she, pointing to a small piece of tin which glittered in a stray sunbeam among the stones.

Mark’s eyes followed the direction of her finger, and he was about to declare that it must be a scale that the dragon had scraped off his back, wriggling among the stones, when both children were startled by a loud voice calling out, “What are you doing, children?  You will fall into the well and break your good-for-nothing little necks!”

Mark and Rosamond drew back, and saw a young man, their brother Bradford, with a basket and a fishing-rod in his hand, coming up the knoll.

“Why are you here, Mark?” asked he.  “Aunt Eleanor thinks it a dangerous place, and has forbidden you to play here.”

Mark looked up at his brother.  “I come,” said he, sturdily, “for that very reason,—­because I am told not to.  I won’t mind Aunt Eleanor, nor any other woman.”

Bradford shook his head and burst out into a laugh.  “Ah, Mark, my boy,” said he, with a serious, comical air, “it will do very well for you to talk,—­you will find out, sooner or later, that all men have to do just what women wish.”

Mark opened his incredulous eyes, and inwardly resolved that this should never be the case with him; and considering that Bradford was only eighteen it is somewhat remarkable that he should have gained so much wisdom, either by observation or experience, at so early an age.