"Bother it! wet again!" said Barbara, pushing back her chair from the breakfast-table with a frown and a pout.
"Never mind," answered her aunt. "Rain before seven, fine before eleven."
Barbara did not believe in proverbs. She wandered restlessly round the room, inquiring what was the good of rain in August, and expressing her discontent with things in general.
"Oh, I say," she exclaimed suddenly, halting in front of the little glass door of the cupboard, "what do you think has happened? That dear little china man with the guitar has tumbled over and broken his head off!"
Helen and the boys crowded round to look. It was certainly the case—the little china figure lay over on its side, broken in the manner already described.
"Who can have done it?"
"I expect I must have upset it the other evening when I was showing you the things," answered Miss Fenleigh. "Never mind, I think I can mend it. Go and fetch my keys, Bar, and we'll see just what's the matter with the little gentleman."
"This is funny," she continued, a few minutes later, "the key won't turn. Dear me! what a silly I am! why, the door isn't locked after all."
The little image was taken out, and while it was being examined Barbara picked up the little leather case on which it usually stood. In another moment she gave vent to an ejaculation of surprise which startled the remainder of the company, and made them immediately forget all about the china troubadour.
"Why, aunt, where's the watch?"