She went to sleep that night with a happier heart than she had had for a long time, and with a little shamed feeling that she had not realised more of the wealth she possessed in the unseen things.
Precisely at three o'clock the next afternoon Chuckles appeared. He was in his Sunday garb—an immaculately clean white sailor suit; but he looked at Sidney rather suspiciously.
"I don't know what I've comed for. Aunt Monnie said I was to listen to you, Miss Sid. What are you going to say?"
"We're going to enjoy ourselves," said Sidney, producing a box of chocolates. "Help yourself, Chuckles, and you shall choose where we shall sit, under a tree or in a tree. But I vote for the garden and not the house."
Chuckles gave a swift glance round; then his eyes rested on the river in the distance, and he promptly said:
"I chooses to sit in the boat."
For an instant Sidney hesitated; then she gave consent, and they marched down to the bottom of the garden.
"We won't unmoor her as it is Sunday, and I never use her on Sunday."
Chuckles looked a little dissatisfied, but clambered in, and Sidney followed him, thinking to herself that the boat had one distinct advantage, for that Chuckles could not so easily run away from her.
"What am I to listen to you about?" the small boy demanded, folding his arms and looking up at her with a glint of defiance in his brown eyes.