"What sort, sir?" inquired Nancy.
"Sort? oh—let's see: damson."
"The damson jam was finished last week, sir. It is nearly the season to make more."
Cyril replied by a rude and ugly word. After some cogitation, he decided upon black currant.
"And bring me up some apricot," put in George.
"And we'll have some gooseberry," called out Rosa. "If you boys have jam, we'll have some too."
Nancy disappeared. Cyril suddenly threw himself back on the sofa, and burst into another ringing laugh. "I can't help it," he exclaimed. "I am thinking of the old woman's fright, and their dismay at having to pay the damage."
"Do you know what I should do in your place, Cyril?" said Miss Benyon. "I should go back to Markham, and tell him honourably that I caused the accident. You know how poor they are; they cannot afford to pay for it."
Cyril stared at Miss Benyon. "Where'd be the pull of that?" asked he.
"The 'pull,' Cyril, would be, that you would repair a wrong done to an unoffending neighbour, and might go to sleep with a clear conscience."