"I detest untruthfulness," said the aunt severely, "in all its forms. Will you kindly take that little boy away? I am quite satisfied about Mabel."
"_Well_," said Gerald, "you _are_ an aunt and no mistake! But what will Mabel's father and mother say?"
"Mabel's father and mother are dead," said the aunt calmly, and a little sob sounded close to Gerald's ear.
"All right," he said, "we'll be off. But don't you go saying we didn't tell you the truth, that's all."
"You have told me nothing," said the aunt, "none of you, except that little boy, who has told me a silly falsehood."
"We meant well," said Gerald gently. "You don't mind our having come through the grounds, do you? We're very careful not to touch anything."
"No visitors are allowed," said the aunt, glancing down at her novel rather impatiently.
"Ah! but you wouldn't count _us_ visitors," said Gerald in his best manner. "We're friends of Mabel's. Our father's Colonel of the --th."
"And our aunt's Lady Sandling, so you can be sure we wouldn't hurt anything on the estate."
"I'm sure you wouldn't hurt a fly," said the aunt absently. "Goodbye. Be good children."
"Why," said Gerald, when they were outside the little court, "your aunt's as mad as a hatter. Fancy not caring what becomes of you, and fancy believing that rot about the motor lady!"
"I knew she'd believe it when I wrote it," said Mabel modestly. "She's not mad, only she's always reading novelettes. _I_ read the books in the big library. Oh, it's such a jolly room--such a queer smell, like boots, and old leather books sort of powdery at the edges. I'll take you there some day. Now your consciences are all right about my aunt, I'll tell you my great idea. Let's get down to the Temple of Flora. I'm glad you got aunt's permission for the grounds. It would be so awkward for you to have to be always dodging behind bushes when one of the gardeners came along."
"Yes," said Gerald modestly, "I thought of that."
The day was as bright as yesterday had been, and from the white marble temple the Italian-looking landscape looked more than ever like a steel engraving coloured by hand, or an oleographic imitation of one of Turner's pictures.
When the three children were comfortably settled on the steps that led up to the white statue, the voice of the fourth child said sadly: "I'm not ungrateful, but I'm rather hungry. And you can't be always taking things for me through your larder window. If you like, I'll go back and live in the castle. It's supposed to be haunted. I suppose I could haunt it as well as any one else. I am a sort of ghost now, you know. I will if you like."