lonely.  In truth the day of the pond was past, and he was filled to the brim of his soul with restlessness and the want of something—­not a tree, not a gun—­something soft.  Those last two days had seemed months in spite of Cast Up by the Sea, wherein he was reading about Mother Lee and her terrible wrecking bonfire.  He had gone up and down the stairs perhaps a hundred times in those two days, and often from the day nursery, where he slept now, had stolen into his mother’s room, looked at everything, without touching, and on into the dressing-room; and standing on one leg beside the bath, like Slingsby, had whispered: 

“Ho, ho, ho!  Dog my cats!” mysteriously, to bring luck.  Then, stealing back, he had opened his mother’s wardrobe, and taken a long sniff which seemed to bring him nearer to—­he didn’t know what.

He had done this just before he stood in the streak of sunlight, debating in which of the several ways he should slide down the banisters.  They all seemed silly, and in a sudden languor he began descending the steps one by one.  During that descent he could remember his father quite distinctly—­the short grey beard, the deep eyes twinkling, the furrow between them, the funny smile, the thin figure which always seemed so tall to little Jon; but his mother he couldn’t see.  All that represented her was something swaying with two dark eyes looking back at him; and the scent of her wardrobe.

Bella was in the hall, drawing aside the big curtains, and opening the front door.  Little Jon said, wheedling,

“Bella!”

“Yes, Master Jon.”

“Do let’s have tea under the oak tree when they come; I know they’d like it best.”

“You mean you’d like it best.”

Little Jon considered.

“No, they would, to please me.”

Bella smiled.  “Very well, I’ll take it out if you’ll stay quiet here and not get into mischief before they come.”

Little Jon sat down on the bottom step, and nodded.  Bella came close, and looked him over.

“Get up!” she said.

Little Jon got up.  She scrutinized him behind; he was not green, and his knees seemed clean.

“All right!” she said.  “My!  Aren’t you brown?  Give me a kiss!”

And little Jon received a peck on his hair.

“What jam?” he asked.  “I’m so tired of waiting.”

“Gooseberry and strawberry.”

Num!  They were his favourites!

When she was gone he sat still for quite a minute.  It was quiet in the big hall open to its East end so that he could see one of his trees, a brig sailing very slowly across the upper lawn.  In the outer hall shadows were slanting from the pillars.  Little Jon got up, jumped one of them, and walked round the clump of iris plants which filled the pool of grey-white marble in the centre.  The flowers were pretty, but only smelled a very little.  He stood in the open doorway and looked out.