see all zem countlies," said Baby, valiantly. "Him will learn jography."

"That's right, Baby," said Fritz. "Stick up for yourself. You'll be a great deal bigger than Denny some day."

Denny was getting ready an answer when Lisa, who knew pretty well the signs of war between Fritz and Denny, called to all the children to come to tea; and as both Fritz and Denny were great hands at bread and butter, they forgot to quarrel, and began pulling their chairs in to the table, and in a few minutes all four were busy at work.

What a pretty sight, and what a pleasant thing a nursery tea is! when the children, that is to say, are sweet-faced and smiling, with clean pinafores, and clean hands, and gentle voices; not leaning over the table, knocking over cups, and snatching rudely at the "butteriest" pieces of bread and butter, and making digs at the sugar when nurse is not looking. That kind of nursery tea is not to my mind, and not at all the kind to which I am always delighted to receive an invitation, written in very round, very black letters, on very small sheets of paper. The nursery teas in Baby's nursery were not always quite what I like to see them, for Celia, Fritz, and Denny, and Baby too, had their tiresome days as well as their pleasant ones, and though they meant to be good to each other, they did not always do just what they meant, or really wished, at the bottom of their hearts. But to-day all the little storms were forgotten in the great news, and all the faces looked bright and eager, though just at first not much was said, for when children are hungry of course they can't chatter quite so fast, and all the four tongues were silent till at least one cup of tea, and perhaps three or four slices of bread and butter each—just as a beginning, you know—had disappeared.

Then said Celia,—

"Lisa, do tell us if you know what sort of a place we're going to."

"Cows pulls carts there," observed Baby; "and—and—what was the 'nother thing? We'll have frogses for dinner."

"Baby!" said the others, "what nonsense!"

"'Tisn't nonsense. Ganfather said Thomas and Dones wouldn't go 'cos they was fightened of frogses for dinner. Him doesn't care—frogses tastes werry good."

"How do you know? You've never tasted them," said Fritz.

"Ganfather said zem was werry good."

"Grandfather was joking," said Celia. "I've often heard him laugh at people that way. It's just nonsense—Thomas and Jones don't know any better. Do they eat frogs in your country, Lisa?"

"In mine country, Fräulein Célie?" said Lisa, looking rather vexed. "No indeed. Man eats goot, most goot tings, in mine country. Say, Herr Baby—Herr Baby knows what goot tings Lisa would give him in her country."

"Yes," said Baby, "such good tings. Tocolate and cakes—lots—and bootiful soup, all sweet, not like salty soup. Him would like werry much to go to Lisa's countly."

"Do cows pull carts in your country, Lisa?" asked Denny.

"Some parts. Not where mine family lives," said Lisa. "No, Fräulein Denny, it's not to mine country we're going. Mine country is it colt, so colt; and your lady mamma and your lady auntie they want to go where it is warm, so warm, and sun all winter."

"I should like that too," said Celia, "I hate winter."

"That's 'cos you're a girl," said Fritz; "you crumple yourself up by the fire and sit shivering—no wonder you're cold. You should come out skating like Denny, and then you'd get warm."

"Denny's a girl too. You said it was because I was a girl," said Celia.

"Well, she's not as silly as some girls, any way," said Fritz, rather "put down."

Baby was sitting silent. He had made an end of two cups of tea and five pieces of bread and butter.

He was not, therefore, quite so hungry as he had been at the beginning, but still he was a long way off having made what was called in the nursery a "good tea." Something was on his mind. He sat with one arm propped on the table, and his round head leaning on his hand, while the other held the piece of bread and butter—butter downwards, of course—which had been on its way to his mouth when his brown study had come over him.

He sat with one arm propped on the table and his round head leaning on his hand, while the other held the piece of bread and butter—butter downwards, of course.—p. 16. Click to ENLARGE

"Herr Baby," said Lisa, "eat, mine child."

Baby took no notice.

"What has he then?" said Lisa, who was very easily frightened about her dear Herr Baby. "Can he be ill? He eats not."

"Ill," said Celia. "No fear, Lisa. He's had ever so much bread and butter. Don't you want any more, Baby? What are you thinking about? We're going to have honey on our last pieces to-night, aren't we, Lisa? For a treat, you know, because of the news of going away."

Celia wanted the honey because she was very fond of it; but besides that, she thought it would wake Baby out of his brown study to hear about it, for he was very fond of it too.

He did catch the word, for he turned his blue eyes gravely on Celia.

"Honey's werry good," he said, "but him's not at his last piece yet. Him doesn't sink he'll ever be at his last piece to-night; him's had to stop eating for he's so dedful busy in him's head."

"Poor little man, have you got a pain in your head?" said his sister, kindly. "Is that what you mean?"

"No, no," said Baby, softly shaking his head, "no pain. It's only busy sinking."

"What about?" said all the children.

Baby sat straight up.

"Children," he said, "him zeally can't eat, sinking of what a dedful packing there'll be. All of everysing. Him zeally sinks it would be best to begin to-night."

At this moment the door opened. It was mother. She often came up to the nursery at tea-time, and

I need hardly say, they were very, very pleased to see her. Indeed there were times even when they were glad to see her face at the door when they hadn't been very good, for somehow she had a way of putting things right again, and making them feel both how wrong and how silly it is to be cross and quarrelsome, that nobody else had. And she would just help the kind words out without seeming to do so, and take away that sore, horrid feeling that one can't be good, even though one is longing so to be happy and friendly again.

But this evening there had been nothing worse than a little squabbling; the children all greeted mother merrily, only Baby still looked rather solemn.

CHAPTER II.

INSIDE A TRUNK

"Mother, mother!" they all cried