"Not if I could help it," I answered, shaking my head; "but I do love some one, and that's the worst of it." 

 "Oh!" exclaimed the Imp, but in a tone more of sorrow than anger. 

 "Don't be too hard on me, Imp," I said; "your turn may come when you are older; you may love somebody one of these days." 

 The Imp frowned and shook his head.  "No," he answered sternly; "when I grow up big I shall keep ferrets. Ben, the gardener's boy, has one with the littlest, teeniest pink nose you ever saw." 

 "Certainly a ferret has its advantages," I mused.  "A ferret will not frown upon one one minute and flash a dimple at one the next. And then, again, a ferret cannot be reasonably supposed to possess an aunt. There is something to be said for your idea after all, Imp." 

 "Why, then, let's be pirates, Uncle Dick," he said with an air of finality.  "I think I'll be Scarlet Sam, 'cause I know all about him, an' you can be Timothy Bone, the boatswain." 

 "Aye, aye, sir," I responded promptly; "only I say, Imp, don't roll your eyes so frightfully or you may roll yourself overboard." 

 Scorning reply, he drew his cutlass, and setting it between his teeth in most approved pirate fashion, sat, pistol in hand, frowning terrifically at creation in general. 

 "Starboard your helm—starboard!" he cried, removing his weapon for the purpose. 

 "Starboard it is!" I answered. 

 "Clear away for action!" growled the Imp.  "Double-shot the cannonades, and bo'sun, pipe all hands to quarters." 

 Whereupon I executed a lively imitation of a boatswain's whistle. Most children are blessed with imagination, but the Imp in this respect is gifted beyond his years. For him there is no such thing as "pretence"; he has but to close his eyes a moment to open them upon a new and a very real world of his own—the golden world of Romance, wherein so few of us are privileged to walk in these cold days of common-sense. And yet it is a very fair world peopled with giants and fairies; where castles lift their grim, embattled towers; where magic woods and forests cast their shade, full of strange beasts; where knights ride forth with lance in rest and their armour shining in the sun. And right well we know them. There is Roland, Sir William Wallace, and Hereward the Wake; Ivanhoe, the Black 

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