“Are you?”

“Yes the book says that Robin Hood was ‘bitter an’ disappointed’ an’ so am I.”

“Why, how’s that?”

The Imp folded his arms and regarded me with a terrific frown. “It’s all the fault of my Auntie Lisbeth’!” he said in a tragic voice.

“Sit down, my Imp, and tell me all about it.”

“Well,” he began laying aside his ‘trusty sword,’ and seating himself at my elbow, “she got awfull’ angry with me yesterday, awfull’ angry, indeed, an’ she wouldn’t play with me or anything; an’ when I tried to be friends with her an’ asked her to pretend she was a hippopotamus, ‘cause I was a mighty hunter, you know, she just said, ‘Reginald, go away an’ don’t bother me!’

“You surprise me, Imp!”

“But that’s not the worst of it,” he continued, shaking his head gloomily; “she didn’t come to ‘tuck me up’ an’ kiss me good-night like she always does. I lay awake hours an’ hours waiting for her, you know; but she never came, an’ so I’ve left her!”

“Left her!” I repeated.

“For ever an’ ever!” he said, nodding a stern brow. “I ‘specks she’ll be awfull’ sorry some day!”

“But where shall you go to?”

“I’m thinking of Persia!” he said darkly.

“Oh!”

“It’s nice an’ far, you know, an’ I might meet Aladdin with the wonderful lamp.”

“Alas, Imp, I fear not,” I answered, shaking my head; “and besides, it will take a long, long time to get there, and where shall you sleep at night?”

The Imp frowned harder than ever, staring straight before him as one who wrestles with some mighty problem, then his brow cleared and he spoke in this wise:

“Henceforth, Uncle Dick, my roof shall be the broad expanse of heaven, an - an - wait a minute!” he broke off, and lugging something from his pocket, disclosed a tattered, papercovered volume (the Imp’s books are always tattered), and hastily turning the pages, paused at a certain paragraph and read as follows:

“‘Henceforth my roof shall be the broad expanse of heaven, an’ all tyrants shall learn to tremble at my name!’ Doesn’t that sound fine, Uncle Dick? I tried to get Ben, you know, the gardener’s boy - to come an’ live in the ‘greenwood’ with me a bit an’ help to make ‘tyrants’ tremble, but he said he was ‘fraid his mother might find him some day, an’ he wouldn’t, so I’m going to make them tremble all by myself, unless you will come an’ be Little John, like you were once before - oh, do!”

Before I could answer, hearing footsteps, I looked round, and my heart leaped, for there was Lisbeth coming down the path.

Her head was drooping and she walked with a listless air. Now, as I watched I forgot everything but that she looked sad, and troubled, and more beautiful than ever, and that I loved her. Instinctively I rose, lifting my cap. She started, and for the fraction of a second her eyes looked into mine, then she passed serenely on her way. I might have been a stick or stone for all the further notice she bestowed.

Side by side, the Imp and I watched her go, until the last gleam of her white skirt had vanished amid the green. Then he folded his arms and turned to me.

“So be it!” he said, with an air of stern finality; “an’ now, what is a ‘blasted oak,’ please?”

“A blasted oak!” I repeated.

“If you please, Uncle Dick.”

“‘Well, it’s an oak-tree that has been struck by lightning.”

“Like the one with the ‘stickie-out’ branches, where I once hid Auntie Lis - Her stockings?”

I nodded, and sitting down, began to pack up my fishing rod and things.

“I’m glad of that,” pursued the Imp thoughtfully. “Robin Hood was always saying to somebody, ‘Hie thee to the blasted oak at midnight!’ an’ it’s nice to have one handy, you know.”

I thought that under certain circumstances, and with a piece of rope, it would be very much so, “blasted” or otherwise, but I only said, “Yes” and sighed.

“‘Whence that doleful visage,’ Uncle Dick - I mean Little John? Is Auntie angry with you, too?”

“Yes,” I answered, and sighed again.

“Oh!” said the Imp, staring, “an’ do you feel like - like - wait a minute - and once more he drew out and consulted the tattered volume - “‘do you feel like hanging yourself in your sword-belt to the arm of yonder tree?’” he asked eagerly, with his finger upon a certain paragraph.

“Very like it, my Imp.”

“Or - or ‘hurling yourself from the topmost pinnacle of yon lofty crag?’”

“Yes, Imp; the ‘loftier’ the better!”

“Then you must be in love, like Alan-a-Dale; he was going to hang himself, an’ ‘hurl himself oft the topmost pinnacle,’ you know, only Robin Hood said, ‘Whence that doleful visage,’ an’ stopped him - you remember?”

“To be sure,” I nodded.

“An’ so you are really in love with my Auntie Lisbeth, are you?”

“Yes.”

“Is that why she’s angry with you?”

“Probably.”

The Imp was silent, apparently plunged once more in a profound meditation.

“‘Fraid there’s something wrong with her,” he said at last, shaking his head; “she’s always getting angry with everybody ‘bout something - you an’ me an’ Mr. Selwyn

“Mr. Selwyn!” I exclaimed. “Imp, what do you mean?”

“‘Well, she got cross with me first - an’ over such a little thing, too! We were in the orchard, an’ I spilt some lemonade on her gown - only about half a glass, you know, an’ when she went to wipe it off she hadn’t a handkerchief, an’ ‘course I had none. So she told me to fetch one, an’ I was just going when Mr. Selwyn came, so I said, ‘Would he lend Auntie Lisbeth his handkerchief, ‘cause she wanted one to wipe her dress?’ an’ he said, ‘Delighted!’ Then auntie frowned at me an’ shook her head when he wasn’t looking. But Mr. Selwyn took out his handkerchief, an’ got down on his knees, an’ began to wipe off the lemonade, telling her something ‘bout his ‘heart,’ an’ wishing he could ‘kneel at her feet forever!’ Auntie got awfull’ red, an’ told him to stand up, but he wouldn’t; an’ then she looked at me so awfull’ cross that I thought I’d better leave, so while she was saying, ‘Rise, Mr. Selwyn-do!’ I ran away, only I could tell she was awfull’ angry with Mr. Selwyn - an’ that’s all!”

I rose to my knees and caught the Imp by the shoulders.

“Imp,” I cried, are you sure - quite sure that she was angry with Mr. Selwyn yesterday morning?”

“‘Course I am. I always know when Auntie Lisbeth’s angry. An’ now let’s go an’ play at ‘Blasted Oaks.’

“Anything you like, Imp, so long as we find her.”

“You’re forgetting your fishing rod an’ - “

“Fishing rod be - blowed!” I exclaimed, and set oft hurriedly in the direction Lisbeth had taken.

The Imp trotted beside me, stumbling frequently over his “trusty sword” and issuing numberless commands in a hoarse, fierce voice to an imaginary “band of outlaws.” As for me, I strode on unheeding, for my mind was filled with a fast-growing suspicion that I had judged Lisbeth like a hasty fool.

In this manner we scoured the neighbourhood very thoroughly, but with no success. However, we continued our search with unabated ardour - along the river path to the water stairs and from thence by way of the gardens to the orchard; but not a sign of Lisbeth. The shrubbery and paddock yielded a like result, and having interrogated Peter in the harness-room, he informed us that “Miss Helezabeth was hout along with Miss Dorothy.” At last, after more than an hour of this sort of thing, even the Imp grew discouraged and suggested “turning pirates.”

Our wanderings had led by devious paths, and now, as luck would have it, we found ourselves beneath “the blasted oak.”

We sat down very solemnly side by side, and for a long time there was silence.

“It’s fine to make ‘tyrants tremble,’ isn’t it Uncle Dick?” said the Imp at last.

“Assuredly.” I nodded.

“But I should have liked to kiss Auntie Lisbeth good-bye first, an’ Dorothy, an’ Louise - “

“What do you mean, my Imp?”

“Oh, you know, Uncle Dick! “My roof henceforth shall be the broad expanse.’ I’m going to fight giants an’ - an’ all sorts of cads, you know. An’ then, if ever I get to Persia an’ do find the wonderful lamp, I can wish everything all right again, an’ we should all be ‘happy ever after’ - you an’ Auntie Lisbeth an’ Dorothy an’ me; an’ we could live in a palace with slaves. Oh, it would be fine!”

“Yes, it’s an excellent idea, Imp, but on the whole slightly risky, because it’s just possible that you might never find the lamp; besides, you’ll have to stop here, after all, because, you see, I’m going away myself.”

“Then let’s go away together, Uncle Dick, do!”

“Impossible, my Imp; who will look after your Auntie Lisbeth and Dorothy and Louise?”

“I forgot that,” he answered ruefully.

“And they need a deal of taking care of,” I added.

“‘Fraid they do,” he nodded; “but there’s Peter,” he suggested, brightening.

“Peter certainly knows how to look after horses, but that is not quite the same. Lend me your trusty sword.”

He rose, and drawing it from his belt handed it to me with a flourish.

“You remember in the old times, Imp, when knights rode out to battle, it was customary for them when they made a solemn promise to kiss the cross-hilt of their swords, just to show they meant to keep it. So now I ask you to go back to your Auntie Lisbeth, to take care of her, to shield and guard her from all things evil, and never to forget that you are her loyal and true knight; and now kiss your sword in token, will you?” and I passed back the weapon.

“Yes,” he answered, with glistening eyes, “I will, on my honour, so help me Sam!” and he kissed the sword.

“Good!” I exclaimed; “thank you, Imp.”

“But are you really going away?” he inquired, looking at me with a troubled face.

“Yes!”

“Must you go?”

“Yes.”

“Will you promise to come back some day - soon?”

“Yes, I promise.”

“On your honour?”

“On my honour!” I repeated, and in my turn I obediently kissed his extended sword-hilt.

“Are you going to-night, Uncle Dick?”

“I start very early in the morning, so you see we had better say ‘good-bye’ now, my Imp.”

“Oh!” he said, and stared away down the river. Now, in the button-hole of my coat there hung a fading rosebud which Lisbeth had given me two days ago, and acting on impulse, I took it out.

“Imp,” I said, “when you get back, I want you to give this to your Auntie Lisbeth and say - er - never mind, just give it to her, will you?”

“Yes, Uncle Dick,” he said, taking it from me, but keeping his face turned away.

“And now good-bye, Imp!”

“Good-bye!” he answered, still without looking at me.

“Won’t you shake hands?”

He thrust out a grimy little palm, and as I clasped it I saw a big tear roll down his cheek.

“You’ll come back soon - very soon - Uncle Dick?”

“Yes, I’ll come back, my Imp.”

“So - help you - Sam?”

“So help me Sam!”

And thus it was we parted, the Imp and I, beneath the “blasted oak,” and I know my heart was strangely heavy as I turned away and left him.

After I had gone some distance I paused to look back. He still stood where I had left him, but his face was hidden in his arms as he leaned sobbing against the twisted trunk of the great tree.

All the way to the ‘Three Jolly Anglers’ and during the rest of the evening the thought of the little desolate figure haunted me, so much so that, having sent away my dinner untasted, I took pen and ink and wrote him a letter, enclosing with it my penknife, which I had often seen him regard with “the eye of desire,” despite the blade he had broken upon a certain memorable occasion. This done, I became possessed of a determination to send some message to Lisbeth also - just a few brief words which should yet reveal to her something of the thoughts I bore her ere I passed ut of her life forever.

For over an hour I sat there, chewing the stem of my useless pipe and racking my bran, but the “few brief words” obstinately refused to come. Nine o’clock chimed mournfully from the Norman tower of the church hard by, yet still my pen was idle and the paper before me blank; also I became conscious of a tapping somewhere close at hand, now stopping, now beginning again, whose wearisome iteration so irritated my fractious nerves that I flung down my pen and rose.

The noise seemed to come from the vicinity of the window. Crossing to it, therefore, I flung the casement suddenly open, and found myself staring into a round face, in which were set two very round eyes and a button of a nose, the whole surmounted by a shock of red hair.

“‘Allo, Mr. Uncle Dick!”

It needed but this and a second glance at the round face to assure me that it pertained to Ben, the gardener’s boy.