“No, darling, I won’t.”

She, being in the nature of a goddess, little Jon was satisfied; especially when, from under the dining-table at breakfast, where he happened to be waiting for a mushroom, he had overheard her say to his father: 

“Then, will you tell ‘Da,’ dear, or shall I?  She’s so devoted to him”; and his father’s answer: 

“Well, she mustn’t show it that way.  I know exactly what it feels like to be held down on one’s back.  No Forsyte can stand it for a minute.”

Conscious that they did not know him to be under the table, little Jon was visited by the quite new feeling of embarrassment, and stayed where he was, ravaged by desire for the mushroom.

Such had been his first dip into the dark abysses of existence.  Nothing much had been revealed to him after that, till one day, having gone down to the cow-house for his drink of milk fresh from the cow, after Garratt had finished milking, he had seen Clover’s calf, dead.  Inconsolable, and followed by an upset Garratt, he had sought “Da”; but suddenly aware that she was not the person he wanted, had rushed away to find his father, and had run into the arms of his mother.

“Clover’s calf’s dead!  Oh!  Oh!  It looked so soft!”

His mother’s clasp, and her: 

“Yes, darling, there, there!” had stayed his sobbing.  But if Clover’s calf could die, anything could—­not only bees, flies, beetles and chickens—­and look soft like that!  This was appalling—­and soon forgotten!

The next thing had been to sit on a bumble bee, a poignant experience, which his mother had understood much better than “Da”; and nothing of vital importance had happened after that till the year turned; when, following a day of utter wretchedness, he had enjoyed a disease composed of little spots, bed, honey in a spoon, and many Tangerine oranges.  It was then that the world had flowered.  To “Auntie” June he owed that flowering, for no sooner was he a little lame duck than she came rushing down from London, bringing with her the books which had nurtured her own Berserker spirit, born in the noted year of 1869.  Aged, and of many colours, they were stored with the most formidable happenings.  Of these she read to little Jon, till he was allowed to read to himself; whereupon she whisked back to London and left them with him in a heap.  Those books cooked his fancy, till he thought and dreamed of nothing but midshipmen and dhows, pirates, rafts, sandal-wood traders, iron horses, sharks, battles, Tartars, Red Indians, balloons, North Poles and other extravagant delights.  The moment he was suffered to get up, he rigged his bed fore and aft, and set out from it in a narrow bath across green seas of carpet, to a rock, which he climbed by means of its mahogany drawer knobs, to sweep the horizon with his drinking tumbler screwed to his eye, in search of rescuing sails.  He made a daily raft out of the towel stand, the tea tray, and his