Young George, commonly called Bunting, arrived home in the week before Easter. He was full of excitement at the new state of affairs, from which he anticipated a more enjoyable life than had hitherto fallen to his lot, though he had spent the greater part of his holidays either in the country houses of relations or in the country with his own family. But to have a home of one's own in the country, to which one could invite chosen friends, with a horse of one's own, kennel facilities, games to be found or invented immediately outside the premises, and all the sport that the country afforded ready to hand—this was far better than staying in other people's houses in the country, pleasant as that had been, and certainly far better than being confined to a house in London, which presented no attractions whatever except in the one item of plays to be seen.

He arrived just in time for lunch, and could hardly give himself time to eat it, so anxious was he to explore. He disappeared immediately afterwards, with Barbara, and was seen at intervals hurrying here and there during the afternoon, an active eager figure in his grey flannel suit and straw hat, and one upon which his elder sisters looked with pride and pleasure.

"It is jolly to have him," said Caroline, as he ran past them, sitting out in the garden, on his way towards the fish ponds, carrying a net for some purpose that seemed to him of the utmost importance for the moment, and accompanied by Barbara and four dogs.

"The darling!" said Beatrix affectionately. She and Caroline had done their best to spoil him since his earliest years, and were inclined to look upon him now as a pet and a plaything, though his independence of mind and habit somewhat discouraged the attitude.

He and Barbara put in an appearance at tea-time, rather warm, rather dishevelled, but entirely happy. They were going through one of those spells of weather which sometimes seem to have strayed from June into April, when leaf and bud are expanding almost visibly under the influence of the hot sun, and promise and fulfilment are so mixed that to turn from one to the other is to get one of the happiest sensations that nature affords. A broad gravel path ran alongside the southeast corner of the house, ending in a yew-enclosed space furnished with white-painted seats round a large table. Here tea was set in shelter from sun and wind, and within sight of some of the quiet beauty of the formal garden, which the gay-coloured flowers of spring were already turning into a place of delight. Even Young George, not yet of an age to be satisfied with horticultural beauty, said that it was jolly, as he looked round him after satisfying the first pangs of appetite, and did not immediately rush away to more active pleasures when he had satisfied the remainder of them.

There was, indeed, a great deal to talk about, in the time that could be spared for talk. A great deal had to be told to this sympathetic bunch of sisters about his own experiences, and amusement to be extracted from them as to theirs.

Every family has its own chosen method of intercourse. That of the Graftons was to encourage one another to humour of observation and expression. When one or another of them was 'in form' they had as appreciative an audience among the rest as they could have gained from their warmest admirers outside. Young George occasionally gave bright examples of the sort of speech that was encouraged among them, and was generously applauded when he did so, not only because his sisters loved and admired him so much, but because it was gratifying to see him expanding to the pains they had taken with his education.

"There's a bloke near here who came last half," he said, when he had given them various pieces of intelligence which he thought might interest them. "His name's Beckley. I didn't know him very well till we came down in the train together, but he's rather a sportsman; he asked a ticket collector at Westhampton Junction to telegraph to his people that the train was late, but he hoped to be in time for his uncle's funeral. Do you know his people?"

"The Beckleys! Oh, yes, they live at Feltham Hall," said Caroline. "Mrs. Beckley and Vera called last week, and the Dragon and I called back. Vera told me about Jimmy. They find him difficult to cope with. They don't adore him as much as we do you, Bunting."

"He doesn't adore them much," said Young George. "He told me that it was a bore having a lot of sisters, and he'd swop the lot for a twin brother."

"Odious little beast!" said Beatrix. "Why a twin brother?"

"Oh, because he says he's the nicest fellow himself that he knows, and he'd like to have somebody of the same sort to do things with. He's really a comic bloke. I'm sure you'll like him. I expect he'll be over here pretty often. I don't suppose he really meant it about his sisters."

"Then he oughtn't to have said it, just for the sake of being funny," said Caroline. "I hope you weren't led into saying that yours were a bore, Bunting."

"No," said Young George. "I said you weren't bad sorts, and I thought he'd like you all right when he saw you. He said he'd come over some time and make an inspection."

"We'll inspect him when he does come," said Barbara. "The Beckley girls are rather bread and buttery. They've got pigtails and a Mademoiselle, and go for walks in the country. The Dragon and I met them once, and we had a little polite conversation before they agreed to go their way and we went ours."

"Barbara dear, I don't think you should get into the way of criticising everybody," said Miss Waterhouse. "I thought they were particularly nice girls."

"Yes, darling, you would," said Barbara. "If I wore a pigtail and said au revoir instead of good-bye, you'd think I was a particularly nice girl. But I'm sure you wouldn't love me as much as you do."

"Vera isn't bread and buttery," said Caroline, "though she's rather quiet. Jimmy seems to have all the high spirits of the family. I told her we'd deal with him if she sent him over here. We'd broken Bunting in, and we'd break him in for her."

"Any other nice people about to play with?" asked Bunting. "I suppose you've got to know them all now."

"I wrote to you about the Breezy Bills and the Zebras, and Lord Salisbury," said Barbara. "I wonder Lord Salisbury isn't here. He generally looks in about tea-time,—or lunch-time, or dinner-time."

"Barbara darling, you mustn't get into the way of exaggerating," said Miss Waterhouse.

"And I told you about Francis Parry bringing the Pembertons over," said Caroline, "and about Bertie taking a fancy to B."

"Beautiful bountiful Bertie!" said Young George, by way of comment.

"He came over again," said Beatrix, "and wanted to lay out golf links for us. He said he should be down for a week at Easter and it would give him something to do. I am sure he is an admirer—the first I've had. Bunting darling, I'm really grown up at last."

"You'll have lots more, old girl," said Young George loyally. "Now I'm getting on a bit myself, and see other fellows' sisters, I can tell you you're a good-looking crowd. Barbara's the most plain-headed, but she's better than the average. She only wants a bit of furnishing out. Who else have you seen?"

"Lady Mansergh from Wilborough," said Caroline. "We think she must have a past, because her hair is so very golden, and she speaks with a slight Cockney accent."

"And because Lord Salisbury disapproves of her," added Beatrix.

"Lord Salisbury disapproves of everybody," said Barbara. "He wants to keep us to himself. I'm his little sunbeam, you know, Bunting. I'm going to help decorate the church for Easter."

"We are all going to do that," said Miss Waterhouse, "and Mr. Mercer is quite justified in asking for that sort of help from us. You should not get into the way of criticising everything he does, Barbara darling."

"She always sticks up for him, because she can't abide him," said Barbara. "I liked Lady Mansergh. She was very affectionate. She patted my cheek and said it did her good to see such nice pretty girls about the place. She said it to me, so you see, Bunting, I'm not so plain-headed as you think. If ever Caroline and B are removed, by marriage or death, you'll see how I shall shine."

"Barbara dear, don't talk about death in that unfeeling way," said Miss Waterhouse. "It is not pretty at all."

Old Jarvis came out of the house at that moment followed by the Vicar, whom he announced by name as solemnly as if he had never seen him before. Jarvis did not like the Vicar, and adopted towards him an air of impregnable respect, refusing to be treated as a fellow human being, and giving monosyllabic answers to his attempts at conversation as he preceded him in stately fashion on his numerous calls to the morning-room, which was seldom used except just before dinner, or the drawing-room, which was never used at all. From the first he had never permitted him "just to run up and find the young ladies," or to dispense with any formality that he could bind him to, though Worthing he always received with a smiling welcome, accepted and returned his words of greeting, and took him straight up to the long gallery if the family was there, or told him if they were in the garden. The morning-room opened into the garden, and the Vicar, hearing voices outside, had followed him out. Jarvis was extremely annoyed with himself that he had not shown him into the drawing-room, which was on the other side of the house, but did not allow his feelings to appear.

The Vicar came forward with an air of proprietary friendship. "Tea out of doors in April!" he said. "What an original family you are, to be sure! Ah, my young friend, I think I can guess who you are."

"Young George, commonly known as Bunting," said Barbara by way of introduction. None of them ever showed him what desolation his visits brought them, and in spite of signs to the contrary that would not have escaped a man of less self-sufficiency he still considered himself as receiving a warm welcome at the Abbey whenever he chose to put in an appearance.

Young George blinked at his method of address, but rose and shook hands with him politely. The Vicar put his hand on his shoulder and gave him a little shake. "We must be friends, you and I," he said. "I like boys, and it isn't so very long since I was one myself, though I dare say I seem a very old sort of person to all you young people."

Young George blinked again. "What an appalling creature!" was the comment he made up for later use. But he did not even meet Barbara's significant look, and stood aside for the visitor to enter the circle round the table.

"Now, young lady, if I'm not too late for a cup of tea," said the Vicar, seating himself by Caroline, after he had shaken hands all round with appropriate comment, "I shall be glad of it. You always have such delicious teas here. I'm afraid I'm sometimes tempted to look in more often than I should otherwise on that account alone."

"Why didn't you bring Mrs. Mercer?" asked Miss Waterhouse. "We haven't seen her for some days."

Miss Waterhouse hardly ever failed to suggest Mrs. Mercer as his expected companion when he put in his appearances at tea-time. It was beginning to occur to him that Miss Waterhouse was something of the Dragon that he had heard his young friends call her, and had once playfully called her himself, though without the success that he had anticipated from his pleasantry. He was inclined to resent her presence in the family circle of which she seemed to him so unsuitable a member. He prided himself upon getting on so well with young people, and these young Graftons were so easy to get on with, up to a point. The point would have been passed and that intimacy which he always just seemed to miss with them would have been his if it had not always been for this stiff unsympathetic governess. She was always there and always took part in the conversation, and always spoilt it, when he could have made it so intimate and entertaining. Miss Waterhouse had to be treated with respect, though. He had tried ignoring her, as the governess, who would be grateful for an occasional kindly word; but it had not worked. She refused to be ignored, and he could hardly ever get hold of the girls, really to make friends, without her.

"Well, I was on my way home," he said. "I have been visiting since lunch-time. I have been right to the far end of the parish to see a poor old woman who is bedridden, but so good and patient that she is a lesson to us all." He turned to Caroline. "I wonder if you would walk up to Burnt Green with me some afternoon and see her. I was telling her about you, and I know what pleasure it would give her to see a bright young face like yours. I'm sure, if you only sat by her bedside and talked to her it would do her good. She is so lonely, poor old soul!"

He spoke very earnestly. Caroline looked at him with dislike tingeing her expression, though she was not aware of it. But Miss Waterhouse replied, before she could do so. "If you will tell us her name and where to find her, Mr. Mercer, we shall be glad to go and see her sometimes."

He gave the required information, half-unwillingly, as it seemed; but this lady was so very insistent in her quiet way. "Mollie Walter comes visiting with me sometimes," he said. "I don't say, you know, that sick people are not pleased to see their clergyman when he calls, but I am not too proud to say that a sympathetic young girl often does more good at a bedside than even the clergyman."

"I should think anybody would be pleased to see Mollie," said Beatrix. "If I were ill she is just the sort of person I should like to see."

"Better than the clergyman?" enquired the Vicar archly. "Now be careful how you answer."

Beatrix turned her head away indifferently. Young George, who was afflicted to the depths of his soul by the idea of this proffered intimacy, said, awkwardly enough but with intense meaning: "My sisters are not used to go visiting with clergymen, sir. I don't think my father would like it for them."

The Vicar showed himself completely disconcerted, and stared at Young George with open eyes and half-open mouth. The boy was cramming himself with bread and butter, and his face was red. With his tangled hair, and clothes that his late exertions had made untidy, he looked a mere child. But there was no mistaking his hostility, nor the awkward fact that here was another obstacle to desired intimacy with this agreeable family.

It was so very unexpected. The Vicar had thought himself quite successful, with his hand on his shoulder, and his few kindly words, in impressing himself upon this latest and very youthful member of it as a desirable friend of the family. And behold! he had made an enemy. For Young George's objection to his sisters' visiting with clergymen in general was so obviously intended to be taken as an objection to their visiting with this one. That was made plain by his attitude.

Miss Waterhouse solved the awkward situation. "Visiting sick people in the country is not like visiting people in the slums of London, Bunting dear. Mr. Mercer would let us know if there were any danger of infection. It would be better, though, I think, if we were to pay our visits separately."

There was to be no doubt about that, at any rate. Miss Waterhouse was hardly less annoyed than Young George at the invitation that had been given, and its impertinence was not to be salved over however much it was to be desired that dislike should not be too openly expressed.

Nor did Caroline or Beatrix wish to be made the subject of discussion. They were quite capable of staving off inconvenient advances, and preferred to do it by lighter methods than those used by Young George, and to get some amusement out of it besides. Caroline laughed, and said: "My darling infant, if we get measles or chicken-pox you might catch them too, and then you wouldn't have to go back to school so soon."

Young George had made his protest, and it had cost him something to do it. His traditions included politeness towards a guest, and he would only have broken them under strong provocation. So, although he was still feeling a blind hatred against this one, he did not reply that his objection was not influenced by the fear of infectious disease, but mumbled instead that he did not want to miss the first days of the summer half.

The Vicar had somewhat recovered himself. His self-conceit made it difficult for him to accept a snub, however directly administered, if it could be made to appear in any way not meant for a snub. "Well, it is true that one has to be a little careful about infection sometimes," he said. "But I know of none anywhere about at present. I have to risk it myself in the course of my duty, but I am always careful about it for others. I had to warn Mollie off certain cottages, when she first came here. She has been such a willing little helper to me since the beginning, and one has to look after one's helpers, you know."

He had quite recovered himself now. Mollie, who had been so pleased to be asked to do what he would like these girls to do, and was obviously not to be criticised, in his position, for asking them to do, was a great stand-by. "I really don't know how I got on before Mollie came," he said. "And Mrs. Mercer feels just the same about her. She has been like a daughter to us."

"She's a dear," said Beatrix. "She has half promised to come and see us in London, when we go up. She has actually hardly ever been to London at all."

"It's most kind of you to take such an interest in her," said the Vicar. "But you mustn't spoil her, you know. I'm not sure that she wouldn't be rather out of place in the sort of life that you lead in London. She isn't used to going about, and hasn't been brought up to it. If you are kind to her when you are down here, and ask her to come and see you now and then, but don't let her make herself a burden on you, you will be doing her a great kindness, and all that can be required of you."

There was a slight pause. "We look upon Mollie as our friend," said Miss Waterhouse, "and one does not find one's friends a burden."

They sat on round the tea-table, and conversation languished. The Vicar made tentative advances towards a stroll round the garden, but they were not taken up. Young George was dying to get away to his activities, but did not like to make a move, so sat and fidgeted instead, his distaste for the Vicar growing apace.

At last the Vicar got up to take his leave. Young George accompanied him to the gate which led from the garden into the road, and opened it for him. "Well good-bye, my young friend," said the Vicar, his hand again on the boy's shoulder. "I hope you'll have an enjoyable holiday here. We must do all we can to make it amusing for you."

"Thank you, sir," said young George, looking down on the ground, and the Vicar took himself off, vaguely dissatisfied, but not blaming himself at all for any awkwardness that had peeped through during his visit.

Young George went back to the tea-table, his cheeks flaming. "What a beast!" he said hotly. "What a cad! Why do you have a creature like that here?"

"Darling old boy!" said Caroline soothingly. "He's not worth making a fuss about. We can deal with him all right. He won't come here so much when he finds out we don't want him. But we must be polite as long as he does come."

"Fancy him having the cheek to ask you to go visiting with him!" said Young George. "I'm jolly glad I let him know I wouldn't stand it. I know Dad wouldn't, and when he's not here I'm the man who has to look after you."

Beatrix caught hold of him and kissed him. "We love being looked after by you, Bunting," she said. "It's jolly to have a brother old enough to do it. But don't fash yourself about Lord Salisbury, dear. We get a lot of fun out of his efforts."

"You mustn't quarrel with him, Bunting," said Barbara. "If you do, he'll leave off calling me a sunbeam."

"If I hear him doing that," said Bunting, "I shall tell him what I really think of him."