The two grown-up women were discovered, erect, but flat, in distant corners, avoiding the bayonet and trusting to their artillery.

“Wicked boy!”
“Naughty boy!” (grape.)
“Little ruffian!” etc.

And hints as to the ultimate destination of so. sanguinary a soul (round shot).

“Ah! here’s miss.  Oh, miss, we are so glad you are come up; don’t go anigh him, miss; he is a tiger.”

Miss Fountain smiled, and went gracefully on one knee beside him.  This brought her angelic face level with the fallen cherub’s.  “What is the matter, dear?” asked she, in a tone of soft pity.

The tiger was not prepared for this:  he dropped his poker and flung his little arm round his cousin’s neck.

“I love you.  Oh! oh! oh!”

“Yes, dear; then tell me, now—­what is the matter?  What have you been doing?”

“Noth—­noth—­nothing—­it’s th—­them been na—­a—­agging me!”

“Nagging you?” and she smiled at the word and a tiger’s horror of it.

“Who has been nagging you, love?”

“Th—­those—­bit—­bit—­it.”  The word was unfortunately lost in a sob.  It was followed by red faces and two simultaneous yells of remonstrance and objurgation.

“I must ask you to be silent a minute,” said Miss Fountain, quietly.  “Reginald, what do you mean by—­by—­nagging?”

Reginald explained.  “By nagging he meant—­why—­nagging.”

“Well, then, what had they been doing to him?”

No; poor Reginald was not analytical, dialectical and critical, like certain pedanticules who figure in story as children.  He was a terrible infant, not a horrible one.

“They won’t fight and they won’t make it up, and they keep nagging,” was all could be got out of him.

“Come with me, dear,” said Lucy, gravely.

“Yes,” assented the tiger, softly, and went out awestruck, holding her hand, and paddling three steps to each of her serpentine glides.

Seated in her own room, tiger at knee, she tried topics of admonition.  During these his eyes wandered about the room in search of matter more amusing, so she was obliged to bring up her reserve.

“And no young lady will ever marry you.”

“I don’t want them to, cousin; I wouldn’t let them; you will marry me, because you promised.”

“Did I?”

“Why, you know you did—­upon your honor; and no lady or gentleman ever breaks their word when they say that; you told me so yourself,” added he of the inconvenient memory.

“Ah! but there is another rule that I forgot to tell you.”

“What is that?”

“That no lady ever marries a gentleman who has a violent temper.”

“Oh, don’t they?”

“No; they would be afraid.  If you had a wife, and took up the poker, she would faint away, and die—­perhaps!”

“Oh, dear!”

“I should.”

“But, cousin, you would not want the poker taken to you; you never nag.”