For a moment Monica hesitated. In after years, she often wondered if it had been her good angel who tried to intervene. Then, seeing the eager expectancy in the child's eyes, she told him to climb up. For a moment she thought of telling him to put on an overcoat, but the sun was bright, and she had a warm plaid over her knees, so she drove off with him, saying dryly:
"I hope we shall not meet anyone, for a more smutty nephew I think no one could possess!"
"It's the waterbutt; I'm sailing my walnuts in it. They're the Channel fleet on an island of water."
"There's no such thing as an island of water."
"Isn't there? What is it when the land comes round the water?"
"The water is then a lake."
Chuckles tipped his hat back on his head and thought hard. Then his mind took another turn.
"Aunt Monnie, I feel I was born a sailor."
"You were born to be a farmer," said Monica firmly. "You were born on a farm abroad. Your father brought you home and meant to farm himself, and bring you up to it. He was taken from you, and I am bringing you up in the way he wished."
"I think father is very happy to be an angel instead. I'd rather be an angel than a farmer."