“Solomon was not always good,” said Babie; “and Uncle Robert told Allen it was a fearful responsibility.  What is a responsibility, Armie?  I am sure Ali didn’t like it.”

“Something to answer for!” said Armine.

“To who?” asked the little girl.

“To God,” said the boy reverently.  “It’s like the talent in the parable.  One has got to do something for God with it, and then it won’t turn to harm.”

“Like the man’s treasure that changed into slate stones when he made a bad use of it,” said Babie.  “Oh!  Armie, what shall we do?  Shall we give plum-puddings to the little thin girls down the lane?”

“And I should like to give something good to the little grey workhouse boys,” said Armine.  “I should so hate always walking out along a straight road as they do.”

“And oh!  Armie, then don’t you think we may get a nice book to write out Jotapata in?”

“Yes, a real jolly one.  For you know, Babie, it will take lots of room, even if I write my very smallest.”

“Please let it be ruled, Armie.  And where shall we begin?”

“Oh! at the beginning, I think, just when Sir Engelbert first heard about the Crusade.”

“It will take lots of books then.”

“Never mind, we can buy them all now.  And do you know, Bab, I think Adelmar and Ermelind might find a nice lot of natural petroleum and frighten Mustafa ever so much with it!”

For be it known that Armine and Barbara’s most cherished delight was in one continued running invention of a defence of Jotapata by a crusading family, which went on from generation to generation with unabated energy, though they were very apt to be reduced to two young children who held out their fortress against frightful odds of Saracens, and sometimes conquered, sometimes converted their enemies.  Nobody but themselves was fully kept au courant with this wonderful siege, which had hitherto been recorded in interlined copy-books, or little paper books pasted together, and very remarkably illustrated.

The door began to creak with an elaborate noisiness intended for perfect silence, and Jock’s voice was heard.

“Bother the door!  Did it wake mother?  No?  That’s right;” and he squatted down between the little ones while Bobus seated himself at the table with a book.

“Well! what colour shall our ponies be?” began Jock, in an attempt at a whisper.

“Oh! shall we have ponies?” cried the little ones.

“Zebras if we like,” said Jock.  “We’ll have a team.”

“Can’t,” growled Bobus.

“Why not?  They can be bought!”

“Not tamed.  They’ve tried it at the Jardin d’Acclimatisation.”

“Oh, that was only Frenchmen.  A zebra is too jolly to let himself be tamed by a Frenchman.  I’ll break one in myself and go out with the hounds upon him.”

“Jack-ass on striped-ass-—or off him,” muttered Bobus.