his right arm. It wasn't fair to come and hit him in the dark. Even Aunty Rosa never tried that. But no blow followed.
"Are you showing off? I won't tell you anything more than Aunty Rosa has, and she doesn't know everything," said Black Sheep as clearly as he could for the arms round his neck.
"Oh my son—my little, little son! It was my fault—my fault, darling—and yet how could we help it? Forgive me, Punch." The voice died out in a broken whisper and two hot tears fell on Black Sheep's forehead.
"Has she been making you cry too?" he asked. "You should see Jane cry. But you're nice, and Jane is a Born Liar—Aunty Rosa says so."
"Hush, Punch, hush! My boy, don't talk like that. Try to love me a little bit—a little bit. You don't know how I want it. Punch-baba, come back to me! I am your Mother—your own Mother—and never mind the rest. I know—yes, I know, dear. It doesn't matter now. Punch, won't you care for me a little?"
It is astonishing how much petting a big boy of ten can endure when he is quite sure that there is no one to laugh at him. Black Sheep had never been made much of before, and here was this beautiful woman treating him—Black Sheep, the Child of the Devil and the Inheritor of Undying Flame—as though he were a small God.
"I care for you a great deal, Mother dear," he whispered at last, "and I'm glad you've come back; but are you sure Aunty Rosa told you everything?"
"Everything. What does it matter? But—" the voice broke with a sob that was also laughter—"Punch, my poor, dear, half-blind darling, don't you think it was a little foolish of you?"
"No. It saved a lickin'."
Mamma shuddered and slipped away in the darkness to write a long letter to Papa. Here is an extract:—
. . . . Judy is a dear, plump little prig who adores the woman, and wears with as much gravity as her religious
