It was the First of April. The weather could not make up its mind whether to be tearful or gay. So, after changing three times, and deciding at last that it was not grown-up to cry, the sun dried up the tear-drops and beamed down on everything and everybody.
"Isn't it a shame, Wilfrid, to have to prepare lessons when it's such a fine afternoon?" exclaimed Norah. She rose from the study table and looked longingly out of the French window to where the crocuses on the lawn seemed to be having the best of it.
"Don't be lazy," replied her brother. "Just come and help me with this sum when I tell you."
"I'm not going to do as you tell me. If you were grown up—say fifteen—it would be different; but you're only a year older than me—not even nine yet—and yet you——"
"Halloa!" interrupted Wilfrid with a low whistle, as he strolled towards the window. "Look at that's legs."
"Which's?" inquired Norah, gazing in the direction he pointed.
"Them's."
"What's?" she asked eagerly, looking around.
"None! Well, you are an April fool!" exclaimed Wilfrid with scornful glee as he resumed his seat; "that's the second time to-day!"
"And you're a very rude boy, and you're not allowed to call me horrid names like that," said Norah with dignity; "and I won't be teased always."