was talking nonsense, or worse still that he was telling stories. For very little children often "romance" in a sweet innocent way which has nothing whatever to do with story-telling – I mean untruth-telling, for it is better not to call untruths "stories," is it not? The world and the people in it, and the things they see and hear, are all new and strange to the little creatures so lately started on their puzzling journey. What wonder that real and fancy are mixed up together sometimes – that it is difficult to understand that the pretty blue-bells do not sometimes tinkle in the moonlight, or that there are no longer bears in the woods or fairies hidden among the grass? Perhaps it would be better for us if we were more ready to believe even such passed-by fancies, than to be so quick as we sometimes are to accuse others of wishing to deceive.
Ted looked at nurse thoughtfully.
"P'raps it did," he said. "P'raps it might have comed down again after Ted was a'leep."
"I daresay it caught in a tree or something of that kind," said nurse, as she finished brushing Ted's soft curls and lifted him off the chair on which he had been standing, just as Percy put his head in at the door to ask if Ted might have a run in the garden with him before breakfast.
"They're not down yet," said Percy, nodding his bright curly head in the direction of Ted's father's and mother's room; "they're not ready. Nurse, do let Ted come out with me for a bit before breakfast," and Ted trotted off, his hand in Percy's, in utmost content.
Was there ever so clever and kind and wonderful a big boy as Percy before? Was there ever one who knew so much about everything– cricket and croquet and football; skating and fishing and climbing trees – things on earth and things in water – what was there he didn't know? These were the thoughts that were busy in Ted's little brain as he followed kind Percy about the garden, that bright summer morning, chattering incessantly, and yet ready enough to be silent when Percy took it into his head to relate to his tiny adorer some of his school experiences.
"Ted will go to school some day, Percy," he said half questioningly.
"Of course you will. I hope you'll come to my school if I've not left by then. I could look after you, you know, and see that they didn't bully you."
"What's 'bully'?" asked Ted.
"Oh, teasing, you know. Setting you down because you're a little chap, and all that. Knocking you about if you don't look sharp. All those kinds of things that big fellows do to small ones."
Ted opened his eyes. It was not very clear to him what Percy meant – it was a new idea, and would have distressed him greatly had he quite taken it in that big boys could be anything but good to little ones.
"Thoo doesn't knock Ted about, and thoo is big, Percy," he said, remonstratingly.
"No, of course I don't, but that's different. You're like my brother, you know."
"And bruvvers couldn't knock theirselves about," said Ted with an air of satisfaction.
"N-no, I suppose not," said Percy. Boy as he was, he felt somehow that he could not bear to destroy little Ted's beautiful faith. "But never mind about that just now," he added; "let's run down the bank and see how the cabbages and cauliflowers are getting on. They were just put in when I was here last;" and for some time both boys were intensely interested in examining the state of the vegetable beds.
"Ted likes f'owers best," said the child, after a few moments' silence. "When Ted – "
"Why don't you say 'I' and 'I like,' Teddy?" said Percy. "You're getting such a big boy – four years old."
"Ted means I," persisted the small man. "I sall have all f'owers in Ted's garden, when me is big."
Percy was obliged to leave off what he was about – hunting for the slugs and caterpillars among the cabbages – in order that he might stand still and laugh.
"I'm afraid you wouldn't get the prize for grammar at our school, Ted," he said. But Ted only laughed too.
"I haven't learnt grammar," he said slowly and distinctly. "But please, Percy, Ted doesn't like cabbages. Come and see the f'owers. There was lots of c'ocodiles at that side. Ted likes zem best of all, but zem's done now."
"Crocodiles," said Percy. "What can crocodiles be?"
"Little f'owers with pointy leaves," said Ted. "P'raps it isn't c'ocodiles but somesing like coc – coco – "
"Crocuses perhaps," said Percy, as they made their way up to the house. "Yes, they're very pretty, but they're soon done."
"When I'm big I'll have a garden where they'll never be done," said Ted. "I'll have c'ocodiles and towslips for muzzer and – and – "
"Come in to breakfast, my man," called out his father from the dining-room. "What have you been about this morning?"
"We'se been in the garden," said Ted, "and Percy's been 'samining the cabbages. He's caught slugs upon slugs, worms upon worms, earwigs upon earwigs."
"My dear little boy," said Ted's father, though he couldn't help laughing, "you mustn't learn to exaggerate."
"What's 'saggerate?" began Ted, but looking round another idea caught him. "Where's muzzer?" he said suddenly.
"Mother is rather tired this morning," said his father. "Eat your breakfast, dear," and then he turned to talk to Percy and ask him questions as to how he was getting on at school.
For a minute or two neither of them noticed Ted. He sat quietly at his place, his bowl of bread and milk before him, but he made no attempt to eat it. Then Percy happened to see him.
"Aren't you hungry, Ted?" he said.
Ted looked up with his two blue eyes full of tears.
"Ses," he said, "Ted's hungry. But if muzzer doesn't come down Ted can't eat. Ted won't eat nothing all day, and he'll die."
"Not quite so bad as that," said his father quietly, for he did not want Ted to see that it was difficult not to smile at his funny way of speaking, "for see here is mother coming."
Ted danced off his seat with pleasure.
"It's dedful when thoo's not here," he said feelingly, and now the bread and milk was quickly despatched. "When I'm big," he continued, in the intervals of the spoonfuls, "I'll have a house as big – as big as a mountain," his eyes glancing out of the window, "and all the little boys in the world shall live there with all their favers and muzzers, and Percies, and everybodies, and nobody shall never go away, not to school or bidness, or nothing, so that they'll all be togever always."
Ted looked round for approval, and then took another spoonful.
"What a nice place you'll make of the world, my boy, when you're big," said his father.
"Ses," said Ted with satisfaction.
"But as that time hasn't come yet, I'm afraid I must go to my 'bidness,'" his father went on. For he had to go several times a week a good way into the country, to see that his men were all doing their work properly. "And Percy must go with me to-day," he went on, "for he needs some new clothes, and I shall be driving through A – ," which was the nearest town to which they lived.
Percy's face looked very pleased, but Ted's grew rather sad.
"Never mind, Teddy," whispered Percy. "We'll have lots of days. You must have a good game with Chevie to keep up your spirits."
"And David is going to cut the grass to-day," said his father, "so you will have plenty of fun."
"But Ted must be careful," said his mother; "don't touch David's sharp tools, Ted. I was quite frightened the other day," she added; "Ted was trying to open and shut those great big shears for clipping the borders."
"Zem was sticked fast," said Ted. "Zem opens kite easy sometimes."
"Well, don't you touch them any way," said his mother, laughing. But though Ted said "No," I don't feel sure that he really heard what his mother was saying. His wits were already off, I don't know where to – running after Cheviott perhaps, or farther away still, up among the little clouds that were scudding across the blue sky that he caught sight of out of the window.
And