The Captain's children sat at breakfast in a large, bright nursery. It
was the room where the old bachelor had died, and now _her_ children
made it merry. This was just what he would have wished.
They all sat round the table, for it was breakfast-time. There were five
of them, and five bowls of boiled bread-and-milk smoked before them.
Sarah (a foolish, gossiping girl, who acted as nurse till better could
be found) was waiting on them, and by the table sat Darkie, the black
retriever, his long, curly back swaying slightly from the difficulty of
holding himself up, and his solemn hazel eyes fixed very intently on
each and all of the breakfast bowls. He was as silent and sagacious as
Sarah was talkative and empty-headed. Though large, he was unassuming.
Pax, the pug, on the contrary, who came up to the first joint of
Darkie's leg, stood defiantly on his dignity (and his short stumps). He
always placed himself in front of the bigger dog, and made a point of
hustling him in doorways and of going first downstairs.
Robert's tongue was seldom idle, even at meals. "Sarah, who is that tall
old gentleman at church, in the seat near the pulpit?" he asked. "He
wears a cloak like what the Blues wear, only all blue, and is tall
enough for a Life-guardsman. He stood when we were kneeling down, and
said, _Almighty and most merciful Father_, louder than anybody."
Sarah knew who the old gentleman was, and knew also that the children
did not know, and that their parents did not see fit to tell them as
yet. But she had a passion for telling and hearing news, and would
rather gossip with a child than not gossip at all. "Never you mind,
Master Robin," she said, nodding sagaciously. "Little boys aren't to
know everything."
"Ah, then, I know you don't know," replied Robert; "if you did, you'd
tell."
"I do," said Sarah.
"You don't," said Robin.
"Your ma's forbid you to contradict, Master Robin," said Sarah; "and if
you do I shall tell her. I know well enough who the old gentleman is,
and perhaps I might tell you, only you'd go straight off and tell
again."
"No, no, I wouldn't!" shouted Robin. "I can keep a secret, indeed I can!
Pinch my little finger, and try. Do, do tell me, Sarah, there's a dear
Sarah, and then I shall know you know." And he danced round her,
catching at her skirts.
To keep a secret was beyond Sarah's powers.
"Do let my dress be, Master Robin," she said, "you're ripping out all
the gathers, and listen while I whisper. As sure as you're a living boy,
that gentleman's your own grandpapa."
Robin lost his hold on Sarah's dress; his arms fell by his side, and he
stood with his brows knit for some minutes, thinking. Then he said,
emphatically, "What lies you do tell, Sarah!"
"Oh, Robin!" cried Nicholas, who had drawn near, his thick curls
standing stark with curiosity, "Mamma said 'lies' wasn't a proper word,
and you promised not to say it again."
"I forgot," said Robin, "I didn't mean to break my promise. But she does
tell--ahem!--_you know what_."
"You wicked boy!" cried the enraged Sarah; "how dare you say such a
thing, and everybody in the place knows he's your ma's own pa."
"I'll go and ask her," said Robin, and he was at the door in a moment;
but Sarah, alarmed by the thought of getting into a scrape herself,
caught him by the arm.
"Don't you go, love; it'll only make your ma angry. There; it was all my
nonsense."
"Then it's not true?" said Robin, indignantly. "What did you tell me so
for?"
"It was all my jokes and nonsense," said the unscrupulous Sarah, "But
your ma wouldn't like to know I've said such a thing. And Master Robert
wouldn't be so mean as to tell tales, would he, love?"
"I'm not mean," said Robin stoutly; "and I don't tell tales; but you do,
and you tell _you know what_, besides. However, I won't go this time;
but I'll tell you what--if you tell tales of me to papa any more, I'll
tell him what you said about the old gentleman in the blue cloak." With
which parting threat Robin strode off to join his brothers and sisters.