Once upon a time there was a nice family. Its name was Avory, and it lived in an old house in Chiswick, where the Thames is so sad on grey days and so gay on sunny ones.

Mr.--or rather Captain--Avory was dead; he had been wounded at Spion Kop, and died a few years after. Mrs. Avory was thirty- five, and she had four children. The eldest was Janet, aged fourteen, and the youngest was Gregory Bruce, aged seven. Between these came Robert Oliver, who was thirteen, and Hester, who was nine. They were all very fond of each other, and they rarely quarrelled. (If they had done so, I should not be telling this story. You don't catch me writing books about people who quarrel.) They adored their mother.