Usually too, Whitsun Fair fell at the height of the militia training; and then for two days booths and caravans, sweet-standings and shooting-galleries lined the main street, and Taffy went out with a shilling in his pocket to enjoy himself.  But the bigger shows—­the menagerie, the marionettes, and the travelling Theatre Royal—­were pitched on Mount Folly, just under his window.  Sometimes the theatre would stay a week or two after the fair was over, until even the boy grew tired of the naphtha-lamps and the voices of the tragedians, and the cornet wheezing under canvas, and began to long for the time when they would leave the square open for the boys to come and play at prisoners’ bars in the dusk.

One evening, a fortnight before Whitsun Fair, he had taken his book to the open window, and sat there with it.  Every night he had to learn a text which he repeated next morning to his mother.  Already, across the square, the Mayoralty house was brightly lit, and the bandsmen had begun to arrange their stands and music before it; for the Colonel was receiving company.  Every now and then a carriage arrived, and set down its guests.

After a while Taffy looked up and saw two persons crossing the square—­an old man and a little girl.  He recognised them, having seen them together in church the day before, when his father had preached the sermon.  The old man wore a rusty silk hat, cocked a little to one side, a high stock collar, black cutaway coat, breeches and gaiters of grey cord.  He stooped as he walked, with his hands behind him and his walking-stick dangling like a tail—­a very positive old fellow, to look at.  The girl’s face Taffy could not see; it was hidden by the brim of her Leghorn hat.

The pair passed close under the window.  Taffy heard a knock at the door below, and ran to the head of the stairs.  Down in the passage his mother was talking to the old man, who turned to the girl and told her to wait outside.

“But let her come in and sit down,” urged Humility.

“No, ma’am; I know my mind.  I want one hour with your husband.”

Taffy heard the door shut, and went back to his window-seat.

The little girl had climbed the cannon opposite, and sat there dangling her feet and eyeing the house.

“Boy,” said she, “what a funny window-seat you’ve got!  I can see your legs under it.”

“That’s because the window reaches down to the floor, and the bench is fixed across by the transom here.”

“What’s your name?”

“Theophilus; but they call me Taffy.”

“Why?”

“Father says it’s an imperfect example of Grimm’s Law.”

“Oh!  Then, I suppose you’re quite the gentleman?  My name’s Honoria.”

“Is that your father downstairs?”

“Bless the boy!  What age do you take me for?  He’s my grandfather.  He’s asking your father about his soul.  He wants to be saved, and says if he’s not saved before next Lady-day, he’ll know the reason why.  What are you doing up there?”