“Will you promise me one thing, dearie?”

She stroked the red head lovingly as it leant against the motherly bosom upon which had so often rested errant lambs and stricken pullets.

“Yes, Janie darling.  I would promise you anything!”

“I know things are going crosswise a bit with you, dearie, as they always do in an unknown country; but I don’t worry about that, because at the crossways there is always a signpost.  But now that we are in this heathen land, I want your promise that you will always tell me where you are going to when you go out—­always.  If it’s out for a ride in the desert or over amongst them mummy-tombs, or out to a tennis-party or dance.  Will you, dearie?  Always?”

The insistence in the demand made the girl look up into the homely face and she did not smile as she made a little cross above her heart in the manner of children.

“I promise, Janie—­cross heart.  And I’m starting out early-early to-morrow morning on an excursion to the Tombs of the Kings.  We are taking lunch with us—­paper-bags and remnants of sandwiches amongst Egypt’s dead--tea at the Rest House and------”

She stopped for a minute, then continued slowly: 

“------and if I don’t come back with the rest, Janie dear, don’t worry. 
It’s full moon, and I may stay to see the Temple by moonlight.”

A moment’s silence; then said practical Jane: 

“And as you can’t take Wellington, dearie, will you promise to take
your revolver?   You know, they say lions have been seen in------”

Damaris laughed.

“They’ve left, Janie!  They’re all at Assouan, waiting to be shot by Mr. Kelham and Miss Sidmouth.”

Jane Coop sniffed as she tucked in the bed-clothes and kissed her child good-night.

She had got to the door when Damaris spoke.

“Janie, you know all about birds, don’t you?”

“Hens, dearie.”

“Well!”  The girl’s voice came muffled, as though she had drawn the
sheet about her face.   “Supposing a hawk------”

“Hawks aren’t hens, dearie.”

“Well—­hens!   Supposing you had a breed of hens that were all—­all—­oh!
any colour------”

“White Leghorns,” said Jane Coop, who was beginning to get interested in this subject so near her heart.

“Yes.  Well, supposing you found that one, when it had all its feathers, had some speckled ones under its wings——­”

“But it couldn’t, dearie, if it was pure-bred!”

“Yes, but just supposing it had, what would be the meaning of it?”

Jane Coop hesitated, and re-tied her apron-strings.  Descriptive analysis was not her strong forte.

“Well, dearie, I should say that the male bird was a—­a—­oh! a Plymouth Rock, or something like that.  The speckled bird would be a good one, but if it was mixed it would have to be turned out of the run if you had a fancy for showing and prizes.  I remember a black——­ But there now! what made you start your old Nannie talking about hens?  Just you turn over and go to sleep, dearie.  You have to be up and away early to-morrow, you know!”