Part 23 (1/2)

”_My_ Ayah always dave me a choccly.”

Now there was no infant in London less deserving of a choccly at that moment than troublesome little Fay. ”Nursery Hygiene” proclaimed the undeniable fact that sweetmeats last thing at night are most injurious.

Duty and Discipline and Self-Control should all have pointed out the evil of any indulgence of the sort. Yet Meg, with all her theories quite fresh and new, and with this excellent opportunity of putting them into practice, extracted a choccly from a box on the chest of drawers; and when the voice, ”like broken music,” announced for the third time, ”_My_ Ayah always dave me a choccly,” ”So will this Ayah,” said Meg, and popped it into the mouth whence the voice issued.

There was a satisfied smacking and munching for a s.p.a.ce, when the voice took up the tale:

”Once Tony had thlee----”

But what it was Tony once had ”thlee” of Meg was not to know that night, for naughty little Fay fell fast asleep.

For a week Tony bathed his sister every night. Neither Jan nor Meg felt equal to facing and going through again the terrors of that first night without Ayah. Little Fay was quite good--she permitted Meg to undress her and even to put her in the little bath, but once there she always said firmly, ”Tony wa.s.s me,” and Tony did.

Then he burned his hand.

He was never openly and obstreperously disobedient like little Fay. On the whole he preferred a quiet life free from contention. But very early in their acquaintance Jan had discovered that what Tony determined upon that he did, and in this he resembled her so strongly that she felt a secret sympathy with him, even when such tenacity of purpose was most inconvenient.

He liked to find things out for himself, and no amount of warning or prohibition could prevent his investigations. Thus it came about that, carefully guarded as the children were from any contact with the fires, Tony simply didn't believe what was told him of their dangers.

Fires were new to him. They were so pretty, with their dancing flames, it seemed a pity to shut them in behind those latticed guards Auntie Jan was so fond of. Never did Tony see the fires without those tiresome guards and he wanted to very much.

One afternoon just before tea, while Meg was changing little Fay's frock, he slipped across to the drawing-room where Auntie Jan was busy writing a letter. Joy! the guard was off the fire; he could sit on the rug and watch it undisturbed. He made no noise, but knelt down softly in front of it and stretched out his hands to the pleasant warmth. It was the sort of fire Tony liked to watch, red at the heart, with little curling flames that were mirrored in the tiled hearth.

Jan looked up from her writing and saw him there, saw also that there was no guard, but, as little Fay had not yet come, thought Tony far too sensible to interfere with the fire in any way. She went on with her writing; then when she looked again something in the intentness of his att.i.tude caused her to say: ”Be sure you don't get too near the fire, Tony; it hurts badly to be burned.”

”Yes, Auntie Jan,” Tony said meekly.

She wrote a few lines more, looked up, and held her breath. It would have been an easy matter even then to dash across and put on the guard; but in a flash Jan realised that to let Tony burn himself a little at that moment might save a very bad accident later on. There was nothing in his clothes to catch alight. His woollen jersey fitted closely.

Exactly as though he were going to pick a flower, with curved hand outstretched Tony tried to capture and hold one of the dancing flames.

He drew his hand back very quickly, and Jan expected a loud outcry, but none came. He sat back on the hearth-rug and rocked his body to and fro, holding the burnt right hand with his left, but he did not utter a sound.

”It does hurt, doesn't it?” said Jan.

He started at the quiet voice and turned a little puckered face towards her. ”Yes,” he said, with a big sigh; ”but I know now.”

”Come with me and I'll put something on it to make it hurt less,” said Jan, and crossed to the door.

”Hadn't we better,” he said, rather breathlessly, ”put that thing on for fear of Fay?”

Jan carefully replaced the ”thing” and took him to her room, where she bandaged the poor little hand with carron-oil and cotton-wool. The outer edge was scorched from little finger to wrist. She made no remark while she did it, and Tony leaned confidingly against her the while.

”Is that better?” she asked, when she had fastened the final safety-pin in the bandage. There was one big tear on Tony's cheek.

”It's nice and cool, that stuff. _Why_ does it hurt so, Auntie Jan? It looks so kind and pretty.”

”It is kind and pretty, only we mustn't go too near. Will you be sure and tell Fay how it can hurt?”