handed her to her mother at the gate, who was vastly overcome by the circumstance.  The good lady had not then received that fall which made her a cripple for life.  “And will you not have my chestnuts, sir, for your kindness?” says little Patty.  Whereat my grandfather laughed and kissed her again, for he loved children, and wished to know if she would not be his daughter, and come to live in Marlboro’ Street; and told the story of Tom, for fear she would not.  He was silent as we drove away, and I knew he was thinking of my own mother at that age.

Not long after this Mr. Swain bought the house in the Duke of Gloucester Street.  This, as you know, is back to back with Marlboro.  To reach Patty’s garden I had but to climb the brick wall at the rear of our grounds, and to make my way along the narrow green lane left there for perhaps a hundred paces of a lad, to come to the gate in the wooden paling.  In return I used to hoist Patty over the wall, and we would play at children’s games under the fruit trees that skirted it.  Some instinct kept her away from the house.  I often caught her gazing wistfully at its wings and gables.  She was not born to a mansion, so she said.

“But your father is now rich,” I objected.  I had heard Captain Daniel say so.  “He may have a mansion of his own and he chooses.  He can better afford it than many who are in debt for the fine show they make.”  I was but repeating gossip.

“I should like to see the grand company come in, when your grandfather has them to dine,” said the girl.  “Sometimes we have grand gentlemen come to see father in their coaches, but they talk of nothing but politics.  We never have any fine ladies like—­like your Aunt Caroline.”

I startled her by laughing derisively.

“And I pray you never may, Patty,” was all I said.

I never told Dolly of my intimacy with the barrister’s little girl over the wall.  This was not because I was ashamed of the friendship, but arose from a fear-well-founded enough—­that she would make sport of it.  At twelve Dolly had notions concerning the walks of life that most other children never dream of.  They were derived, of course, from Mr. Marmaduke.  But the day of reckoning arrived.  Patty and I were romping beside the back wall when suddenly a stiff little figure in a starched frock appeared through the trees in the direction of the house, followed by Master Will Fotheringay in his visiting clothes.  I laugh now when I think of that formal meeting between the two little ladies.  There was no time to hoist Miss Swain over the wall, or to drive Miss Manners back upon the house.  Patty stood blushing as though caught in a guilty act, while she of the Generations came proudly on, Will sniggering behind her.

“Who is this, Richard?” asks Miss Manners, pointing a small forefinger.

“Patty Swain, if you must know!” I cried, and added boylike:  “And she is just as good as you or me, and better.”  I was quite red in the face, and angry because of it.  “This is Dorothy Manners, Patty, and Will Fotheringay.”