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“Fitzgerald!” came in a stern voice from the lower end of the table, where sat Mr Anstruther, with a book propped up against the dish in front of him; “don’t make that noise. Why don’t you keep the children quiet, Cecil? My dear!” and Mr Anstruther’s eye-glasses went slowly up, to be focussed on Cecil’s dishevelled tresses, “what have you been doing to your hair? It is in a most disgraceful state. What is all this row about?”

“Why, daddy,” cried Loey, otherwise Owen, “it’s what we’ll do with Cissie’s money we’re talking about.”

“You will do nothing with it,” returned Mr Anstruther, severely, for the point was rather a sore one with him. “Your sister will spend the money as she likes, without consulting a set of little dunces like you.”

“Oh, papa, but I mean to do something for them,” cried Cecil. “I have been so glad ever since I heard I had got the prize to think that I should be able to help you with it. The money will pay the boys’ fees for one term, or help with their books, at any rate.”