[Illustration:  “I CAN CLIMB UP THAT AN’ SLIDE DOWN THE COAL INSIDE.  THAT’S WHAT I CAN DO.  THERE’S NOTHIN’ I CAN’T DO!” SAID WILLIAM.]

He pointed to a little window high up in the coal-house.

“I can climb up that an’ slide down the coal inside.  That’s what I can do.  There’s nothin’ I can’t do.  I——­”

“All right,” urged Cuthbert, “if you can do that, do it, and I’ll believe you can do anything.”

For Cuthbert, with unholy glee, foresaw William’s undoing.

“Oh, William,” pleaded Joan, “I know you’re brave, but don’t——­”

But William was already doing it.  They saw his disappearance into the little window, they heard plainly his descent down the coal heap inside, and in less than a minute he appeared in the doorway.  He was almost unrecognisable.  Coal dust adhered freely to the moist consistency of the mud and lichen already clinging to his suit, as well as to his hair and face.  His collar had been almost torn away from its stud.  William himself was smiling proudly, utterly unconscious of his appearance.  Joan was plainly wavering between horror and admiration.  Then the moment for which Cuthbert had longed arrived.

“Children! come in now!”

Cuthbert, clean and dainty, entered the drawing-room first and pointed an accusing finger at the strange figure which followed.

“He’th been climbing treeth an’ crawling in the mud, an’ rolling down the coalth.  He’th a nathty rough boy.”

A wild babel arose as William entered.

“William!”

“You dreadful boy!”

“Joan, come right away from him.  Come over here.”

“What will your father say?”

“William, my carpet!”

For the greater part of the stream’s bed still clung to William’s boots.

Doggedly William defended himself.

“I was showin’ ’em how to do things.  I was bein’ a host.  I was tryin’ to make ’em happy!  I——­”

“William, don’t stand there talking.  Go straight upstairs to the bathroom.”

It was the end of the first battle, and undoubtedly William had lost.  Yet William had caught sight of the smile on Cuthbert’s face and William had decided that that smile was something to be avenged.

But fate did not favour him.  Indeed, fate seemed to do the reverse.

The idea of a children’s play did not emanate from William’s mother, or Joan’s.  They were both free from guilt in that respect.  It emanated from Mrs. de Vere Carter.  Mrs. de Vere Carter was a neighbour with a genius for organisation.  There were few things she did not organise till their every other aspect or aim was lost but that of “organisation.”  She also had what amounted practically to a disease for “getting up” things.  She “got up” plays, and bazaars, and pageants, and concerts.  There were, in fact, few things she did not “get up.”  It was the sight of Joan and Cuthbert walking together down the road, the sun shining on their golden curls, that had inspired her with the idea of “getting up” a children’s play.  And Joan must be the Princess and little Cuthbert the Prince.