"Grandfather, they was all black—and they jumped—and wiggled—and spitted—o-o-oh!"
And the child went off in another wail, at which moment the Bishop perceived Meynell. His delicate cheek flushed, but he held up his hand, in smiling entreaty; and Meynell disappeared behind a revolving bookcase.
The Bishop hastily returned to the charge, endeavouring to persuade his little granddaughter that the "bogie" had really been "cook's black cat," generally condemned to the kitchen and blackbeetles, but occasionally let loose to roam the upper floors in search of nobler game. The child dried her eyes, and listened, gravely weighing his remarks. Her face gradually cleared, and when at the end he said slyly, "And even if there were bogies, little girls shouldn't throw hairbrushes at their Nannies!" she nodded a judicial head, adding plaintively:
"But then Nannies mustn't talk all the time, grandfather! Little girls must talk a itty itty bit. If Nannies not let them, little girls must frow somefing at Nannies."
The Bishop laughed—a low, soft sound, from which Meynell in the distance caught the infection of mirth.
A few murmured words—no doubt a scolding—and then:
"Are you good, Barbara?"
"Ye-s," said the child, slowly—"not very."
"Good enough to say you're sorry to Nannie?"
The child smiled into his face.