The blond-haired M.F.H. reached for his younger brother; the infant culprit avoided him and sullenly withdrew the sucked finger but not his fascinated gaze.

“I want to know who he ith,” he lisped in a loud aside.

“So do I,” admitted a tiny maid in stickout skirts.

Drina dropped the cat, swept the curly hair from her eyes, and stood up very straight in her kilts and bare knees.

“They don’t really mean to be rude,” she explained; “they’re only children.”  Then, detecting the glimmering smile in Selwyn’s eyes, “But perhaps you wouldn’t mind telling us who you are because we all would like to know, but we are not going to be ill-bred enough to ask.”

Their direct expectant gaze slightly embarrassed him; he laughed a little, but there was no response from them.

“Well,” he said, “as a matter of fact and record, I am a sort of relative of yours—­a species of avuncular relation.”

“What is that?” asked Drina coldly.

“That,” said Selwyn, “means that I’m more or less of an uncle to you.  Hope you don’t mind.  You don’t have to entertain me, you know.”

“An uncle!” repeated Drina.

“Our uncle?” echoed Billy.  “You are not our soldier uncle, are you?  You are not our Uncle Philip, are you?”

“It amounts to that,” admitted Selwyn.  “Is it all right?”

There was a dead silence, broken abruptly by Billy; “Where is your sword, then?”

“At the hotel.  Would you like to see it, Billy?”

The five children drew a step nearer, inspecting him with merciless candour.

“Is it all right?” asked Selwyn again, smilingly uneasy under the concentrated scrutiny.  “How about it, Drina?  Shall we shake hands?”

Drina spoke at last:  “Ye-es,” she said slowly, “I think it is all right to shake hands.”  She took a step forward, stretching out her hand.

Selwyn stooped; she laid her right hand across his, hesitated, looked up fearlessly, and then, raising herself on tiptoe, placed both arms upon his shoulders, offering her lips.

One by one the other children came forward to greet this promising new uncle whom the younger among them had never before seen, and whom Drina, the oldest, had forgotten except as that fabled warrior of legendary exploits whose name and fame had become cherished classics of their nursery.

And now children and dogs clustered amicably around him; under foot tails wagged, noses sniffed; playful puppy teeth tweaked at his coat-skirts; and in front and at either hand eager flushed little faces were upturned to his, shy hands sought his and nestled confidently into the hollow of his palms or took firm proprietary hold of sleeve and coat.

“I infer,” observed Selwyn blandly, “that your father and mother are not at home.  Perhaps I’d better stop in later.”

“But you are going to stay here, aren’t you?” exclaimed Drina in dismay.  “Don’t you expect to tell us stories?  Don’t you expect to stay here and live with us and put on your uniform for us and show us your swords and pistols? Don’t you?”