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"No, sairtin him wouldn't," said Baby. "Him wouldn't pull off all their sweet little skins and hairs to make him a coat. Denny's a c'uel girl."

"There won't be much more skin or hairs left if you go on scrubbing him up and down with your sharp little nose like that," said Fritz.

Baby drew back his face in a fright.

"Put him in the cage then," he said, and with Fritz's help this was safely done. Then Baby stood silent, slowly rubbing his own nose up and down, and looking very grave.

"Him's nose isn't sharp," he said at last, turning upon Denny. "Sharp means knifes and scidders."

All the children burst out laughing. Of course they understood things better than Baby, for even Denny, the youngest next to him, was nine, that is twice his age, which by the by was a puzzle to Denny herself, for Celia had teased her one day by saying that according to that when Baby was eighty Denny would be a hundred and sixty, and nobody ever lived to be so old, so how could it be.

But Denny, though she didn't always understand everything herself, was very quick at taking up other people if they didn't.

"Oh, you stupid little goose," she said. "Of course, Fritz didn't mean as sharp as a knife. There's different kinds of sharps—there's different kinds of everything."

Baby looked at her gravely. He had his own way of defending himself.

"Werry well. If him's a goose him won't talk to you, and him won't tell you somesing werry funny and dedful bootiful that him heard in the 'groind room."

All eyes were turned on Baby.

"Oh, do tell us, Baby darling, do tell us," said Celia and Denny.

Fritz gave Baby a friendly pat on the back.

"You'll tell me, old fellow, won't you?" he said. Baby looked at him.

"Yes," he said at last; "him will tell you,'cos you let him have Peepy-'noozle, and 'cos you doesn't call him a goose—like girls does. I'll whister in your ear, Fritz, if you'll bend down."

But Celia thought this was too bad.

"I didn't call you a goose, Baby," she said. "I think you might tell me too."

"And I'll promise never to call you a goose again if you'll tell me," said Denny.

Baby had a great soul. It was beneath him to take a mean revenge, he felt, especially on a girl! So he shut his little mouth tightly, knit his little brows, and thought it over for a moment or two. Then his face cleared.

"Him will tell you all—all you children," he said at last, "but it's werry long and dedful wonderful, and you mustn't inrumpt him. P'omise?"

"Promise," shouted the three.

"Well then, litsen. We's all goin' away—zeally away—over the sea—dedful far. As far as the sky, p'raps."

"In a balloon?" said Denny, whose tongue wouldn't keep still even though she was very much interested in the news.

"No, in a boat," replied Baby, forgetting to notice that this was an "inrumption," "in a werry 'normous boat. All's going. Him was looking for 'tamps in mother's basket of teared letters under the little table, and mother and ganfather and auntie didn't know him were there, and ganfather said to mother somesing him couldn't understand—somesing about thit house, and mother said, yes, 'twould be a werry good thing to go away 'fore the cold weather comed, and the children would be p'eased. And auntie said she would like to tell the children, but——"

Another "inrumption." This time from Fritz.

"Baby, stop a minute," he exclaimed. "Celia, Denny—Baby's too little to understand, but," and here Fritz's round chubby face got very red, "don't you think we've no right to let him tell, if it's something mother means to tell us herself? She didn't know Baby was there—he said so."

But before Celia or Denny could answer, Baby turned upon Fritz.

"Him tolded you not to inrumpt," he said, with supreme contempt. "If you would litsen you would see. Mother did know him was there at the ending, for auntie said she'd like to tell the children—that's you, and Denny and Celia—but him comed out from the little table and said him would like to tell the children hisself. And mother were dedful surprised, and so was ganfather and auntie. And then they all bursted out laughing and told him lots of things—about going in the railway, and in a 'normous boat to that other country, where there's cows to pull the carts, and all the people talk lubbish-talk, like Lisa when she's cross. And zen, and zen, him comed upstairs to tell you."

Baby looked round triumphantly. Celia and Fritz and Denny looked first at him and then at each other. This was wonderful news—almost too wonderful to be true.

"We must be going to Italy or somewhere like that," said Celia. "How lovely! I wonder why they didn't tell us before?"

"Italy," repeated Denny, "that's the country like a boot, isn't it? I do hope there won't be any snakes. I'd rather far stay at home than go where there's snakes."

"I wouldn't," said Fritz, grandly. "I'd like to go to India or Africa, or any of those places where there's lots of lions and tigers and snakes, and anything you like. Give me a good revolver and you'd see."

"Don't talk nonsense, Fritz," said Celia. "You're far too little a boy for shooting and guns and all that. It's setting a bad example to Baby to talk that boasting way, and it's very silly too."

"Indeed, miss. Much obliged to you, miss," said Fritz. "I'd only just like to know, miss, who it was came to my room the other night and was sure she heard robbers, and begged Fritz to peep behind the swing-door in the long passage. And 'oh,' said this person, 'I do so wish you had a gun that you could point at them to frighten them away.' Fritz wasn't such a very little boy just then."

Celia's face got rather red, and she looked as if she was going to get angry, but at that moment, happily, Lisa appeared with the tray for the nursery tea. She had left the room when the dormouse was caught, so she had not heard the wonderful news, and it had all to be told over again. She smiled and seemed pleased, but not as surprised as the children expected.

"Why, aren't you surprised, Lisa?" said the children. "Did you know before? Why didn't you tell us?"

Lisa shook her head and looked very wise.

"What country are we going to? Can you tell us that?" said Celia.

"Is it to your country? Is it to what you call Dutchland?" said Fritz. "I think it's an awfully queer thing that countries can't be called by the same names everywhere. It makes geography ever so much harder. We've got to call the people that live in Holland Dutch, and they call themselves—oh, I don't know what they call themselves——"

"Hollanders," said Lisa.

"Hollanders!" repeated Fritz. "Well, that's a sensible sort of name for people that live in Holland. But we've got to call them Dutch; and then, to make it more muddled still, Lisa calls her country Dutchland, and the people Dutch, and we call them German I think it's very stupid. If I was to make geography I wouldn't do it that way."

"What's jography?" said Baby.

"Knowing all about all the countries and all the places in the world," said Denny.

"Him wants to learn that," said Baby.

"Oh, you're far too little!" said Denny. "I only began it last year. Oh, you're ever so much too little!"

"Him's not too little to go in the 'normous boat to