"No, no," I said hastily, "not that! I won't ask again." 

 "Promise." 

 "I promise." 

 When I had finished the plaiting, I tied the ends with a piece of ribbon which she produced, kissed them, and sat down in the grass at her feet. 

 We had oceans of time, for the fete did not begin till two. But we agreed there must be a rehearsal of some kind. 

 "What do you know about yourself, Punch?" 

 "I have a foggy recollection of domestic differences." 

 "You used to beat me cruelly." 

 "Ah, but you had a nagging tongue, Judy. I can hear your defiant 'wootle' now." 

 Her lips parted in a smile at the reminiscence, and before they closed again she had slipped something between them. The next instant the wood rang with a regular hurricane of toots and wootles. 

 "Oh, Judy!" 

 "Wootle?"  she said inquiringly. 

 "Rather! But hush—you'll wake the echoes." 

 "And why not? They ought to be up and about by now." 

 I shook my head. 

 "They're a sleepy folk," I said; "they get so little rest. The day is noisy enough, but at night, what with dogs baying the moon, and the nightjars calling, when owls do cry—" 

 "When owls do cry—" 

 "—and the earnest but mistaken chanticleer, they have a rotten time. Poor echoes! And they wake very easily here." 

 "Don't they everywhere?" 

 "Oh, no! I know some that are very heavy sleepers. In fact, it's hopeless to try and wake them without the welkin." 

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