an imaginary burning house, because of the current of air which Rupert told us was to be found near the floor.  We fastened Baby Cecil’s left leg to his right by pocket-handkerchiefs at the ankle, and above and below the knee, pretending that it was broken, and must be kept steady till we could convey him to the doctor.  But for some unexplained reason Baby Cecil took offence at this game, and I do not think he could have howled and roared louder under the worst of real compound fractures.  We had done it so skilfully, that we were greatly disgusted by his unaccommodating spirit, and his obstinate refusal to be put into the litter we had made out of Henrietta’s stilts and a railway rug.  We put the Scotch terrier in instead; but when one end of the litter gave way and he fell out, we were not sorry that the emergency was a fancy one, and that no broken limbs were really dependent upon our well-meant efforts.

There was one thing about Rupert’s lectures which disappointed me.  His emergencies were all things that happened in the daytime.  Now I should not have liked the others to know that I was ever afraid of anything; but, really and truly, I was sometimes a little frightened—­not of breaking my leg, or a house on fire, or an apoplectic fit, or anything of that sort, but—­of things in the dark.  Every half-holiday I hoped there would be something about what to do with robbers or ghosts, but there never was.  I do not think there can have been any emergencies of that kind in the yellow leather book.

On the whole, I fancy Rupert found us satisfactory pupils, for he never did give up the lectures in a huff, though he sometimes threatened to do so, when I asked stupid questions, or Henrietta argued a point.

CHAPTER II.

Henrietta—­A family chronicle—­the school mimic—­my first fight.

Henrietta often argued points, which made Rupert very angry.  He said that even if she were in the right, that had nothing to do with it, for girls oughtn’t to dispute or discuss.  And then Henrietta argued that point too.

Rupert and Henrietta often squabbled, and always about the same sort of thing.  I am sure he would have been very kind to her if she would have agreed with him, and done what he wanted.  He often told me that the gentlemen of our family had always been courteous to women, and I think he would have done anything for Henrietta if it had not been that she would do everything for herself.

When we wanted to vex her very much, we used to call her “Monkey,” because we knew she liked to be like a boy.  She persuaded Mother to let her have her boots made like ours, because she said the roads were so rough and muddy (which they are).  And we found two of her books with her name written in, and she had put “Henry,” and Rupert wrote Etta after it, and “Monkey” after that.  So she tore the leaves out.  Her hair was always coming out of curl.  It was very dark, and when it fell into her eyes she used to give her head a peculiar shake and toss, so that half of it fell the wrong way, and there was a parting at the side, like our partings.  Nothing made Rupert angrier than this.