CHAPTER III
BLANCHE
HE WAS awakened in the morning by the sound of young things scuttering. A race was forward in the hall—first the panting and pat- ter-patter and scratch of some small animal in full career; a shower of light quick footsteps following, the sound of a body in soft collision with his door, and then, the voice.
"No, no, Beetles, give it to me—give it to me this instant!" A young school-mistress controlling her youngest scholar could not have been more severe. "There's no use hiding under my petticoat; hold your head up. Now—" dropping to an encouraging tone— "open your mouth, and give it to Missus;" falling to a dulcet note that would have wiled an image— "no, little dog mustn't eat it. It's hard and cold and bad for his inside;" suddenly rising to the pitch of Napoleon commanding his army— "Do you hear! Beetles!"
Evidently there was a tussle. He guessed the child was on her knees. The door vibrated slightly with
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