“Just the thing!” I ejaculated.  Five minutes later I had telegraphed my acceptance, and had mentally selected books enough for a dozen vacations.  I knew enough of Helen’s boys to be sure they would give one no annoyance.  Budge, the elder, was five years of age, and had generally, during my flying visits, worn a shy, serious, meditative, noble face, and Toddie was a happy little know-nothing of three summers, with tangled yellow hair.

Three days later I hired a hackman to drive me from Hillcrest Station.  Half a mile from my brother-in-law’s residence the horses shied violently, and the driver, after talking freely to them, remarked, “That was one of the Imps!”

As he spoke the offending youth came panting beside our carriage, and in a very dirty sailor-suit I recognised my nephew Budge.  Then a smaller boy emerged from the bushes at the side of the road, and I beheld the unmistakable lineaments of Toddie.

“They’re my nephews!” I gasped.

“Budge,” I said, with all the sternness I could command; “do you know me?”

“Yes; you’re Uncle Harry.  Did you bring us anything?”

“I wish I could have brought you some big whippings for behaving so badly.  Get into this carriage.”

As they clambered up, I noticed that each one carried a very dirty towel, knotted tightly in the centre.  After some moments’ disgusted contemplation of these rags, I asked Budge what these towels were for.

“They’re not towels, they’re dollies,” promptly answered my nephew.

“Goodness!” I exclaimed.  “I should think your mother might buy you respectable dolls, and not let you appear in public with these loathsome rags.”

“We don’t like buyed dollies,” said Budge.  “These dollies is lovely.  Mine’s got blue eyes and Toddie’s has got brown eyes.”

“I want to shee your watch,” remarked Toddie, snatching the chain and rolling into my lap.

“Oh-oo-ee!  So do I!” shouted Budge, hastening to occupy one knee, and in transit wiping his shoes on my trousers and the skirts of my coat.

A carriage containing a couple of ladies was rapidly approaching; I dropped my head to avoid meeting their glance, for my few minutes of contact with my dreadful nephews had made me feel inexpressibly un-neat.  The carriage stopped.  I heard my own name spoken.  There, erect, fresh, neat, bright-eyed, fair-faced, smiling, and observant, sat Miss Alice Mayton, a lady who for about a year I had been adoring from afar.

“When did you arrive, Mr. Burton?” she asked.  “You’re certainly a happy-looking trio—­so unconventional!  You look as if you had been having such a good time.”

“I—­I assure you, Miss Mayton, that my experience has been the reverse of a pleasant one.  If King Herod were yet alive I’d volunteer as an executioner.”

“You dreadful wretch!” exclaimed the lady.  “Mother, let me make you acquainted with Mr. Burton, Helen Lawrence’s brother.  How is your sister, Mr. Burton?”