“You—­I suppose you know, my little ones, what this—­what you have to do?” he said.

“Not so little, if you please, Mr. Vivian,” returned the boy.  “Yes, we’ve got to take you with us to see pater familias.”

“And mater familiar—­familias,” added the little girl.

“I see—­you know,” said the Prophet, in a despairing voice.  “Very well.  Wait here quietly—­very quietly, while I go and get ready.”

“And please don’t forget the Crab and grandmother, rashes, et ceterus,” said the little girl.

“Tera Corona,” piped her brother.

“I won’t,” said the Prophet.  “I will not.”

And he tottered out of the room, carrying the Sagittarius letter in his hand.

In the hall he paused for a moment, holding on to the balusters and re-reading his directions.  Then he crawled slowly up the stairs and sought his grandmother’s room.

CHAPTER XIV

THE PROPHET JOURNEYS TO THE MOUSE

Mrs. Merillia was just beginning to recover from the prostration of the preceding day when the Prophet came into the room where she was seated with Mrs. Fancy Quinglet.  She looked up at him almost brightly, but started when she saw how agitated he seemed.

“Grannie,” said the Prophet, abruptly, “you would tell me anything, wouldn’t you?”

“Why, of course, my dear boy.  But what about?”

“About—­about yourself?”

Mrs. Merillia looked very much astonished.

“There is nothing to hide, Hennessey,” she said with gentle dignity.  “You know that.”

“I do, I do,” cried the Prophet, passionately.  “Yours has been the best, the sweetest life the world has ever known!”

“Well, I don’t wish to imply—­”

“But I do, grannie, I do.  Can Fancy leave us for a moment?”

“Certainly.  Fancy, you can go to your tatting.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Mr Hennessey has something to explain to me.”

“Oh, ma’am, the houses that have been broke up by explainings!”

And with this, as the Prophet thought, appallingly appropriate exclamation, Mrs. Fancy hurried feverishly from the room.

“Now what is the question you wish to ask me, Hennessey?” said Mrs. Merillia, with a soft dignity.

“There are—­one moment—­there are eight questions, grannie,” responded the Prophet, shrinking visibly before the dread necessity by which he found himself confronted.

“Eight!  So many?”

“Yes, oh, indeed, yes.”

“Well, my dear, and what are they?”

“The first is—­is—­grannie, when were you removed from—­from the bottle?”

A very delicate flush crept into Mrs. Merillia’s charming cheeks.

“The bottle, Hennessey!  Never, never!” she said, with a sort of pathetic indignation.  “How could you suppose—­I—­the bottle—­”

Her pretty old voice died away.