By seven o’clock this particular, evening he was miserably repentant; several tears had trickled down, his cheeks and mingled with the ink of the map he was engaged upon for Miss Marsh.  He established himself at Meg’s elbow, and kept looking up into her face in a yearning love-and-forgive-me kind of way that she found infinitely embarrassing; for she had begun to suspect, from his strange conduct, that he had in some way learned the contents of her note, and was trying to discourage her from her enterprise.  The more he gazed at her the redder and more uncomfortable she became.

“You can have my new c—­c—­catapult,” he whispered once, giving her a tearful, imploring look, that she interpreted as an entreaty to stay safely at home.

At last the clock had travelled up to eight, and the children being engaged in a wordy warfare over the possession of a certain stray dog that had come to Misrule in the afternoon, she slipped out of the room unobserved.  No one was in the hall, and she picked up the becoming, fleecy cloud she had hidden there, twisted it round her head, and crept out of the side door and along the first path.

Down in the garden the ground was white with fallen rose leaves, and the air full of their dying breath; a clump of pampas grass stood tall and soft against the sky; some native trees, left growing among the cultivated shrubs, stretched silver-white arms up to the moon and gave the little hurrying figure a ghostly kind of feeling.  Out of the gate and into the first paddock, where the rose scent did not come at all, and only a pungent smell of wattle was in the thin, hushed air.  More gum trees, and more white, ghostly arms; then a sharp movement near the fence, a thick, sepulchral whisper, and a stifled scream from Meg.

“Here’s the c—­c—­c—­catapult, M—­Meg; t—–­take it,” Bunty said, his face white and miserable.

“You little stupid!  What do you mean coming creeping here like this?” Meg said, angry as soon as her heart began to beat again.

“I only w—­wanted to p—­p—­please you, M—­M-Meggie,” the little boy said, with a bitter sob in his voice.

He had put both his arms round her waist, and was burying his nose in her white muslin dress.  She shook him off hastily.

“All right; there—­thanks,” she said.  “Now go home, Bunty; I want to have a quiet walk in the moonlight by myself.”

He screwed his knuckles as far into his eyes as they would go, his mouth opened, and his lower lip dropped down, down.

“I t—­t—­told y—­y—­you a b—­b—­big st—­st—­story;” he wept, rocking to and fro where he stood.

“Did you?  Oh, all right!  Now go home,” she said impatiently.  “You always are telling stories, Bunty, you know, so I’m not surprised.  There-go along.”

“But—­but I’m—­must tell you all ab—­ab—­about it,” he said, still engaged in driving his eyes into his head.

“No, you needn’t; I’ll forgive you this time,” she said magnanimously, “only don’t do it again.  Now run away at once, or you won’t have your map done, and miss Marsh will punish you.”