"No, she didn't jump down, my Imp." 

 "Well, did she—did she fly down?" 

 "No, nor fly down—she just came down." 

 "Yes, but how did she—" 

 "Reginald," said Lisbeth, "run and tell the maids to bring tea out here—for three." 

 "Three?" echoed the Imp.  "But Dorothy has gone out to tea, you know—is Uncle Dick going to—" 

 "To be sure, Imp," I nodded. 

 "Oh, that is fine—hurrah, Little-John!" he cried, and darted off to ward the house. 

 "And you, Lisbeth?" I said, imprisoning her hands, "are you glad also?" 

 Lisbeth did not speak, yet I was satisfied nevertheless. 

 

 

 III 

 THE DESPERADOES 

 Fane Court stands bowered in trees, with a wide stretch of the greenest of green lawns sloping down to the river stairs. 

 They are quaint old stairs, with a marble rail and carved balusters, worn and crumbling, yet whose decay is half hid by the kindly green of lichens and mosses; stairs indeed for an idle fellow to dream over on a hot summer's afternoon—and they were, moreover, a favourite haunt of Lisbeth. It was here that I had moored my boat, therefore, and now lay back, pipe in mouth and with a cushion beneath my head, in that blissful state between sleeping and waking. 

 Now, as I lay, from the blue wreaths of my pipe I wove me fair fancies: 

 And lo! the stairs were no longer deserted; there were fine 

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