“Fauntleroy.”

“Mr. Hobbs always signed his letters that way,” said Fauntleroy; “and I thought I’d better say ‘please.’  Is that exactly the right way to spell ’interfered’?”

“It’s not exactly the way it is spelled in the dictionary,” answered the Earl.

“I was afraid of that,” said Fauntleroy.  “I ought to have asked.  You see, that’s the way with words of more than one syllable; you have to look in the dictionary.  It’s always safest.  I’ll write it over again.”

And write it over again he did, making quite an imposing copy, and taking precautions in the matter of spelling by consulting the Earl himself.

“Spelling is a curious thing,” he said.  “It’s so often different from what you expect it to be.  I used to think ‘please’ was spelled p-l-e-e-s, but it isn’t, you know; and you’d think ‘dear’ was spelled d-e-r-e, if you didn’t inquire.  Sometimes it almost discourages you.”

When Mr. Mordaunt went away, he took the letter with him, and he took something else with him also—­namely, a pleasanter feeling and a more hopeful one than he had ever carried home with him down that avenue on any previous visit he had made at Dorincourt Castle.

When he was gone, Fauntleroy, who had accompanied him to the door, went back to his grandfather.

“May I go to Dearest now?” he asked.  “I think she will be waiting for me.”

The Earl was silent a moment.

“There is something in the stable for you to see first,” he said.  “Ring the bell.”

“If you please,” said Fauntleroy, with his quick little flush.  “I’m very much obliged; but I think I’d better see it to-morrow.  She will be expecting me all the time.”

“Very well,” answered the Earl.  “We will order the carriage.”  Then he added dryly, “It’s a pony.”

Fauntleroy drew a long breath.

“A pony!” he exclaimed.  “Whose pony is it?”

“Yours,” replied the Earl.

“Mine?” cried the little fellow.  “Mine—­like the things upstairs?”

“Yes,” said his grandfather.  “Would you like to see it?  Shall I order it to be brought around?”

Fauntleroy’s cheeks grew redder and redder.

“I never thought I should have a pony!” he said.  “I never thought that!  How glad Dearest will be.  You give me EVERYthing, don’t you?”

“Do you wish to see it?” inquired the Earl.

Fauntleroy drew a long breath.  “I want to see it,” he said.  “I want to see it so much I can hardly wait.  But I’m afraid there isn’t time.”

“You must go and see your mother this afternoon?” asked the Earl.  “You think you can’t put it off?”

“Why,” said Fauntleroy, “she has been thinking about me all the morning, and I have been thinking about her!”

“Oh!” said the Earl.  “You have, have you?  Ring the bell.”

As they drove down the avenue, under the arching trees, he was rather silent.  But Fauntleroy was not.  He talked about the pony.  What color was it?  How big was it?  What was its name?  What did it like to eat best?  How old was it?  How early in the morning might he get up and see it?