There were certain things that Uncle Henry, as a writer of “historical novels,” had to explain, or else admit himself a disgraceful failure. For he sometimes read fancy bits aloud to the children, using the latter as a standard. These fancy bits were generally scenes of action: Escape; a Duke landing by night and dressed as a woman to avoid discovery; a dark man stealing “storical” documents from a tapestried chamber in a frightful castle where bats and cobwebs shared the draughty corridors. These and the like he read aloud, judging their success by the reception accorded to them. “Thank you very much Uncle,” meant failure; the imagination was left untouched. But questions were an indication of success; the scene was alive and real; the audience wanted more details. For I knew that it was the “child” in his readers that enjoyed such scenes, and if Jinny and Jimbo felt no interest, neither would Mr. and Mrs. William Smith of Peckham. To squeeze a question out of Maria, the youngest, however, raised hopes of at least a Second Edition! These night-scenes, of course, were always windy; sometimes they were stormy. Either the wind rose at an unexpected and unwelcome moment, or else it dropped just when the cover of its roar was needed by the villain; at other times it merely misbehaved itself generally, as night-winds do. But as a rule it wailed, moaned, whistled, whispered, cried, sang, sighed, sobbed or⁠—soughed. Keyholes and chimneys were its favourite places, and sometimes the rafters knew it, too. Thus, to the children, it became a known, expected thing with tastes and habits of its own. They looked for “Mr. Night-Wind,” and recognised it when it came. “A night-wind story, please,” was a classical form of attack between tea and bedtime. It had a personality and led a mysterious existence. It had qualities, privileges, prerogatives. It acquired a definite locus standi in the mythology of the country house. Owing to its various means of vocal expression⁠—singing, moaning, and the rest⁠—a face belonged to it with lips and mouth; teeth, too, since it whistled. It ran about the world, and so had feet; it flew, so wings pertained to it; it blew, and that meant cheeks of sorts. It was a large, swift, shadowy being whose ways were not the ordinary ways of daylight. It struck blows. It had gigantic hands. Moreover, it came out only after dark⁠—an ominous and suspicious characteristic rather. “Why isn’t there a day-wind too?” enquired Jinny, thoughtfully. “There is, but it’s quite a different thing,” Uncle Henry explained, calmly. “You might as well ask why midday and midnight aren’t the same because they both come at twelve o’clock. They’re simply different things, you see.” “Of course,” Jimbo helped him unexpectedly; “and a man can’t be a woman, can it?” Mr. Night-Wind’s nature, accordingly, remained a mystery rather, and its sex, in spite of the deceptive “Mr.,” was also undetermined. Whether it saw with eyes, or just felt its way about like a blind thing, wandering, was another secret matter undetermined. Each child visualised it differently. Its hiding-place in the daytime was equally unknown. Owls, bats and burglars guessed its habits best, and that it came out of a hole in the sky was, perhaps, the only detail all unanimously agreed upon. It was a pathetic being, rather. This Night-Wind used to come crying round the bedroom windows sometimes, and the children liked it, although they did sot understand all its melancholy beauty. They heard the different voices in it, although they did not catch the meaning of the words it sang. They heard its footsteps, too. Its way of moving awed them. Moreover, it was forever trying to get in. “It’s wings,” said Jinny, “big, dark wings, very soft and feathery.” “It’s a woman with sad black eyes,” thought Jimbo. “That’s how I like it.” “It’s someone,” declared Maria, who was asleep before it came, so rarely heard it at all. And they turned to Uncle Henry, who knew all that sort of thing, or, at any rate, could describe it. He found the words. They lay hidden in his thick back hair apparently⁠—there was none on the top!⁠—for he always scratched his head a good deal when they asked him questions about such difficult matters “What is it really⁠—the Mr. Night-Wind?” they asked gravely; “and why does it sound so very different from the wind in the morning or the afternoon?” “There is a difference,” he replied carefully, realising it for the first time now that they asked. “It’s a quick, dark, rushing thing, and it moves like⁠—like anything.” “We know that,” they told him contemptuously, yet with considerate patience. “And it has long hair,” he added hurriedly, looking into Jimbo’s staring eyes. “That’s what makes it swish.