“But, can’t I stay up—­jest a little while?  You see—­”

“No!”

“You see, it’s such a—­magnif’cent night!  It feels as though—­things might happen!”

“Don’t be so silly!”

“Well, but it does, you know.”

“What do you mean—­what things?”

“Well, it feels—­gnomy, to me.  I s’pecks there’s lots of elves about—­hidden in the shadows, you know, an’ peeping at us.”

“There aren’t any elves,—­or gnomes,” said Anthea petulantly, for she was still furiously angry with herself.

“But my Uncle Porges told me—­”

“Oh!” cried Anthea, stamping her foot suddenly, “can’t you talk of anyone, or anything but—­him?  I’m tired to death of him and his very name!”

“But I thought you liked him—­an awful lot, an’—­”

“Well, I don’t!”

“But, you said—­”

“Never mind what I said!  It’s time you were in bed asleep,—­so come along—­at once, sir!”

So they went on through the orchard together, very silently, for Small Porges was inclined to be indignant, but much more inclined to be hurt.  Thus, they had not gone so very far, when he spoke, in a voice that he would have described as—­quivery.

“Don’t you think that you’re—­just the teeniest bit—­cruel to me, Auntie Anthea?” he enquired wistfully, “after I prayed an’ prayed till I found a fortune for you!—­don’t you, please?” Surely Anthea was a creature of moods, to-night, for, even while he spoke, she stopped, and turned, and fell on her knees, and caught him in her arms, kissing him many times: 

“Yes,—­yes, dear, I’m hateful to you,—­horrid to you!  But I don’t mean to be.  There!—­forgive me!”

“Oh!—­it’s all right again, now, Auntie Anthea, thank you.  I only thought you were jest a bit—­hard, ’cause it is such a—­magnif’cent night, isn’t it?”

“Yes dear; and perhaps there are gnomes, and pixies about.  Anyhow, we can pretend there are, if you like, as we used to—­”

“Oh will you? that would be fine!  Then, please, may I go with you—­as far as the brook?  We’ll wander, you know,—­I’ve never wandered with you in the moonlight,—­an’ I do love to hear the brook talking to itself,—­so—­will you wander—­jest this once?”

“Well,” said Anthea, hesitating, “it’s very late!—­”

“Nearly nine o ’clock, yes!  But Oh!—­please don’t forget that I found a fortune for you—­”

“Very well,” she smiled, “just this once.”

Now as they went together, hand in hand through the moonlight, Small Porges talked very fast, and very much at random, while his eyes, bright, and eager, glanced expectantly towards every patch of shadow,—­doubtless in search of gnomes, and pixies.

But Anthea saw nothing of this, heard nothing of the suppressed excitement in his voice, for she was thinking that by now, Mr. Cassilis had read her letter,—­that he might, even then, be on his way to Dapplemere.  She even fancied, once or twice, that she could hear the gallop of his horse’s hoofs.  And, when he came, he would want to—­kiss her!