Another shock was waiting for me farther down the story.

For we had resumed our adventures, though we seldom saw Baileynow. At long intervals we met him on our way to or from theGardens, and, if there was none from Pilkington's to mark him,methought he looked at us somewhat longingly, as if beneath hisreal knickerbockers a morsel of the egg-shell still adhered.Otherwise he gave David a not unfriendly kick in passing, andcalled him "youngster." That was about all.

When Oliver disappeared from the life of the Gardens we hadlofted him out of the story, and did very well without him,extending our operations to the mainland, where they were on sovast a scale that we were rapidly depopulating the earth. Andthen said David one day,

"Shall we let Barbara in?"

We had occasionally considered the giving of Bailey's place tosome other child of the Gardens, divers of David's year havingsought election, even with bribes; but Barbara was new to me.

"Who is she?" I asked.

"She's my sister."

You may imagine how I gaped.

"She hasn't come yet," David said lightly, "but she's coming."

I was shocked, not perhaps so much shocked as disillusioned, forthough I had always suspicioned Mary A---- as one who harboured thecraziest ambitions when she looked most humble, of suchpresumption as this I had never thought her capable.

I wandered across the Broad Walk to have a look at Irene, and shewas wearing an unmistakable air. It set me reflecting aboutMary's husband and his manner the last time we met, for though Ihave had no opportunity to say so, we still meet now and again,and he has even dined with me at the club. On these occasionsthe subject of Timothy is barred, and if by any unfortunateaccident Mary's name is mentioned, we immediately look oppositeways and a silence follows, in which I feel sure he is smiling,and wonder what the deuce he is smiling at. I remembered nowthat I had last seen him when I was dining with him at his club(for he is become member of a club of painter fellows, and Maryis so proud of this that she has had it printed on his card),when undoubtedly he had looked preoccupied. It had been thelook, I saw now, of one who shared a guilty secret.

As all was thus suddenly revealed to me I laughed unpleasantly atmyself, for, on my soul, I had been thinking well of Mary oflate. Always foolishly inflated about David, she had beengrudging him even to me during these last weeks, and I hadforgiven her, putting it down to a mother's love. I knew fromthe poor boy of unwonted treats she had been giving him; I hadseen her embrace him furtively in a public place, her every act,in so far as they were known to me, had been a challenge towhoever dare assert that she wanted anyone but David. How couldI, not being a woman, have guessed that she was really sayinggood-bye to him?

Reader, picture to yourself that simple little boy playing aboutthe house at this time, on the understanding that everything wasgoing on as usual. Have not his toys acquired a new pathos,especially the engine she bought him yesterday?

Did you look him in the face, Mary, as you gave him that engine?I envy you not your feelings, ma'am, when with loving arms hewrapped you round for it. That childish confidence of his to me,in which unwittingly he betrayed you, indicates that at last youhave been preparing him for the great change, and I suppose youare capable of replying to me that David is still happy, and eveninterested. But does he know from you what it really means tohim? Rather, I do believe, you are one who would not scruple togive him to understand that B (which you may yet find stands forBenjamin) is primarily a gift for him. In your heart, ma'am,what do you think of this tricking of a little boy?

Suppose David had known what was to happen before he came to you,are you sure he would have come? Undoubtedly there is anunwritten compact in such matters between a mother and her first-born, and I desire to point out to you that he never breaks it.Again, what will the other boys say when they know? You areoutside the criticism of the Gardens, but David is not. Faith,madam, I believe you would have been kinder to wait and let himrun the gauntlet at Pilkington's.

You think your husband is a great man now because they arebeginning to talk of his foregrounds and middle distances in thenewspaper columns that nobody reads. I know you have bought hima velvet coat, and that he has taken a large, airy and commodiousstudio in Mews Lane, where you are to be found in a soft materialon first and third Wednesdays. Times are changing, but shall Itell you a story here, just to let you see that I am acquaintedwith it?

Three years ago a certain gallery accepted from a certain artista picture which he and his wife knew to be monstrous fine. Butno one spoke of the picture, no one wrote of it, and no one madean offer for it. Crushed was the artist, sorry for the densenessof connoisseurs was his wife, till the work was bought by adealer for an anonymous client, and then elated were they both,and relieved also to discover that I was not the buyer. He cameto me at once to make sure of this, and remained to walk thefloor gloriously as he told me what recognition means togentlemen of the artistic callings. O, the happy boy!

But months afterward, rummaging at his home in a closet that isusually kept locked, he discovered the picture, there hiddenaway. His wife backed into a corner and made tremblingconfession. How could she submit to see her dear's masterpieceignored by the idiot public, and her dear himself plunged intogloom thereby? She knew as well as he (for had they not beenmarried for years?) how the artistic instinct hungers forrecognition, and so with her savings she bought the great workanonymously and stored it away in a closet. At first, I believe,the man raved furiously, but by-and-by he was on his knees at thefeet of this little darling. You know who she was, Mary, but,bless me, I seem to be praising you, and that was not theenterprise on which I set out. What I intended to convey wasthat though you can now venture on small extravagances, you seemto be going too fast. Look at it how one may, this Barbara ideais undoubtedly a bad business.

How to be even with her? I cast about for a means, and on mylucky day I did conceive my final triumph over Mary, at which Ihave scarcely as yet dared to hint, lest by discovering it Ishould spoil my plot. For there has been a plot all the time.

For long I had known that Mary contemplated the writing of abook, my informant being David, who, because I have published alittle volume on Military tactics, and am preparing a larger oneon the same subject (which I shall never finish), likes to watchmy methods of composition, how I dip, and so on, his desire beingto help her. He may have done this on his own initiative, but itis also quite possible that in her desperation she urged him toit; he certainly implied that she had taken to book-writingbecause it must be easy if I could do it. She also informed him(very inconsiderately), that I did not print my books myself, andthis lowered me in the eyes of David, for it was for the printinghe had admired me and boasted of me in the Gardens.

"I suppose you didn't make the boxes neither, nor yet thelabels," he said to me in the voice of one shorn of belief ineverything.

I should say here that my literary labours are abstruse, thetoken whereof is many rows of boxes nailed against my walls, eachlabelled with a letter of the alphabet. When I take a note in A,I drop its into the A box, and so on, much to the satisfaction ofDavid, who likes to drop them in for me. I had now to admit thatWheeler & Gibb made the boxes.

"But I made the labels myself, David."

"They are not so well made as the boxes," he replied.

Thus I have reason to wish ill to Mary's work of imagination, asI presumed it to be, and I said to him with easy brutality, "Tellher about the boxes, David, and that no one can begin a bookuntil they are all full. That will frighten her."

Soon thereafter he announced to me that she had got a box.

"One box!" I said with a sneer.

"She made it herself," retorted David hotly.

I got little real information from him about the work, partlybecause David loses his footing when he descends to thepractical, and perhaps still more because he found meunsympathetic. But when he blurted out the title, "The LittleWhite Bird," I was like one who had read the book to its lastpage. I knew at once that the white bird was the little daughterMary would fain have had. Somehow I had always known that shewould like to have a little daughter, she was that kind of woman,and so long as she had the modesty to see that she could not haveone, I sympathised with her deeply, whatever I may have saidabout her book to David.

In those days Mary had the loveliest ideas for her sad littlebook, and they came to her mostly in the morning when she wasonly three-parts awake, but as she stepped out of bed they allflew away like startled birds. I gathered from David that thisdepressed her exceedingly.

Oh, Mary, your thoughts are much too pretty and holy to showthemselves to anyone but yourself. The shy things are hidingwithin you. If they could come into the open they would not be abook, they would be little Barbara.

But that was not the message I sent her. "She will never be ableto write it," I explained to David. "She has not the ability.Tell her I said that."

I remembered now that for many months I had heard nothing of herambitious project, so I questioned David and discovered that itwas abandoned. He could not say why, nor was it necessary thathe should, the trivial little reason was at once so plain to me.From that moment all my sympathy with Mary was spilled, and Isearched for some means of exulting over her until I found it. It was this. I decided, unknown even to David, to write the book"The Little White Bird," of which she had proved herselfincapable, and then when, in the fulness of time, she held herbaby on high, implying that she had done a big thing, I was tohold up the book. I venture to think that such a devilishrevenge was never before planned and carried out.

Yes, carried out, for this is the book, rapidly approachingcompletion. She and I are running a neck-and-neck race.

I have also once more brought the story of David's adventures toan abrupt end. "And it really is the end this time, David," Isaid severely. (I always say that.)

It ended on the coast of Patagonia, whither we had gone to shootthe great Sloth, known to be the largest of animals, though wefound his size to have been under-estimated. David, his fatherand I had flung our limbs upon the beach and were having a lastpipe before turning in, while Mary, attired in barbaricsplendour, sang and danced before us. It was a lovely evening,and we lolled manlike, gazing, well-content, at the prettycreature.

The night was absolutely still save for the roaring of the Slothsin the distance.

By-and-by Irene came to the entrance of our cave, where by thelight of her torch we could see her exploring a shark that hadbeen harpooned by David earlier in the day.

Everything conduced to repose, and a feeling of gentle peacecrept over us, from which we were roused by a shrill cry. It wasuttered by Irene, who came speeding to us, bearing certainarticles, a watch, a pair of boots, a newspaper, which she haddiscovered in the interior of the shark. What was our surpriseto find in the newspaper intelligence of the utmost importance toall of us. It was nothing less than this, the birth of a newbaby in London to Mary.

How strange a method had Solomon chosen of sending us the news.

The bald announcement at once plunged us into a fever ofexcitement, and next morning we set sail for England. Soon wecame within sight of the white cliffs of Albion. Mary could notsit down for a moment, so hot was she to see her child. Shepaced the deck in uncontrollable agitation.

"So did I!" cried David, when I had reached this point in thestory.

On arriving at the docks we immediately hailed a cab.

"Never, David," I said, "shall I forget your mother's excitement.She kept putting her head out of the window and calling to thecabby to go quicker, quicker. How he lashed his horse! At lasthe drew up at your house, and then your mother, springing out,flew up the steps and beat with her hands upon the door."

David was quite carried away by the reality of it. "Father hasthe key!" he screamed.

"He opened the door," I said grandly, "and your mother rushed in,and next moment her Benjamin was in her arms."

There was a pause.

"Barbara," corrected David.

"Benjamin," said I doggedly.

"Is that a girl's name?"

"No, it's a boy's name."

"But mother wants a girl," he said, very much shaken.

"Just like her presumption," I replied testily. "It is to be aboy, David, and you can tell her I said so."

He was in a deplorable but most unselfish state of mind. A boywould have suited him quite well, but he put self asidealtogether and was pertinaciously solicitous that Mary should begiven her fancy.

"Barbara," he repeatedly implored me.

"Benjamin," I replied firmly.

For long I was obdurate, but the time was summer, and at last Iagreed to play him for it, a two-innings match. If he won it wasto be a girl, and if I won it was to be a boy.