A pretty, cheerful nursery-a nursery in which surely children could not but be happy-with pictures on the walls and toys in the glass-doored cupboard, and rocking-horse and doll-house, and everything a child's heart could wish for. Spring sunshine faint but clear, like the first pale primrose, peeping in at the window, a merry fire crackling away in the tidy hearth. And just in front of it, for it is early spring only, a group of children pleasant to see. A soft-haired, quiet-eyed little girl, a book open upon her knee, and at each side, nestling in beside her, a cherub-faced dot of a boy, listening to the story she was reading aloud. Such a peaceful, pretty picture Ah yes-what a pity to disturb it. But I must show you the whole of it. Into this pretty nursery flies another child-a tiny fairy of a girl, tiny even for her years which are but five-in she flies, down the long passage which leads to the children's quarters, in at the nursery door, which, in spite of her hurry, she carefully closes, and seeing that the other door is open closes it too, then, flying back to the centre of the room, deliberately sets to work to-children, can you guess?-to scream