“That’s what Tommy Trout said,” observed the Doctor.

“Who’s Tommy Trout?” asked Deordie.

“Don’t you know, Deor?” said Tiny.  “It’s the good boy who pulled the cat out of the what’s-his-name.

     ’Who pulled her out? 
     Little Tommy Trout.’

Is it the same Tommy Trout, Doctor?  I never heard anything else about him except his pulling the cat out; and I can’t think how he did that.”

“Let down the bucket for her, of course,” said the Doctor.  “But listen to me.  If you will get that handkerchief done, and take it to your mother with a kiss, and not keep me waiting, I’ll have you all to tea, and tell you the story of Tommy Trout.”

“This very night?” shouted Deordie.

“This very night.”

“Every one of us?” inquired the young gentleman with rapturous incredulity.

“Every one of you.—­Now, Tiny, how about that work?”

“It’s just done,” said Tiny.—­“Oh!  Deordie, climb up behind, and hold back my hair, there’s a darling, while I fasten off.  Oh!  Deor, you’re pulling my hair out.  Don’t.”

“I want to make a pig-tail,” said Deor.

“You can’t,” said Tiny, with feminine contempt.  “You can’t plait.  What’s the good of asking boys to do anything?  There! it’s done at last.  Now go and ask Mother if we may go.—­Will you let me come, Doctor,” she inquired, “if I do as you said?”

“To be sure I will,” he answered.  “Let me look at you.  Your eyes are swollen with crying.  How can you be such a silly little goose?”

“Did you never cry?” asked Tiny.

“When I was your age?  Well, perhaps so.”

“You’ve never cried since, surely,” said Tiny.

The Doctor absolutely blushed.

“What do you think?” said he.

“Oh, of course not,” she answered.  “You’ve nothing to cry about.  You’re grown up, and you live all alone in a beautiful house, and you do as you like, and never get into rows, or have anybody but yourself to think about; and no nasty pocket-handkerchiefs to hem.”

“Very nice; eh, Deordie?” said the Doctor.

“Awfully jolly,” said Deordie.

“Nothing else to wish for, eh?”

“I should keep harriers, and not a poodle, if I were a man,” said Deordie; “but I suppose you could, if you wanted to.”

“Nothing to cry about, at any rate?”

“I should think not!” said Deordie.—­“There’s Mother, though; let’s go and ask her about the tea;” and off they ran.

The Doctor stretched his six feet of length upon the sward, dropped his grey head on a little heap of newly-mown grass, and looked up into the sky.

“Awfully jolly—­no nasty pocket-handkerchiefs to hem,” said he, laughing to himself.  “Nothing else to wish for; nothing to cry about.”

Nevertheless, he lay still, staring at the sky, till the smile died away, and tears came into his eyes.  Fortunately, no one was there to see.