Apologies for being so late updating. This chapter was unbelievably hard to write up, and it took forever to get it the way I wanted it. Hope you enjoy! Please leave a review!

Chapter Two

The Toronto Institution

1

"Well, I can't imagine for a moment what that boy wants to go capering off all the way to Africa for," said Susan Baker, with a sorrowful shake of her head. She gave her wool a vigorous yank and continued knitting her jumper for young Bruce Meredith. "A heathen country, Mrs Doctor, dear, and all those dangerous animals and diseases we read about in the church magazines. Why, if I had been Mr Meredith, I shouldn't have let him go!"

"I'm sure Carl will be adequately trained for the job, Susan," said Dr. Blythe, from behind his copy of the Evening Post. "No doubt the people he's going with have done this many times before."

"Oh, and just think of the marvellous things he'll see!" sighed Mrs Blythe, rapturously, hugging her knees to her chest. "The great, untamed wilds of the jungle; crystal lakes and flame trees and little clusters of fragrant moonflowers, and the chatter of little native children..."

"Hmph!" said Susan. "They'll most likely all have fleas."

"Oh, Susan, let me have my little vision," laughed Anne, turning a little to lean against one of the wooden pillars next to the veranda step. "I must ask Carl to bring me something back, like a colourful feather of some exotic bird, or a pebble from one of those crystal lakes."

"Those crystal lakes of yours, Anne, will probably be three inches deep and full of leeches," said the Doctor, with a chuckle. His wife looked up at him through veiled lashes and gave him a teasing smile. Susan shook her head again. Really, it was quite scandalous for two middle-aged, respectable people to be flirting together after thirty years of marriage.

"What was it that he wrote to his father last week?" put in Miss Cornelia, who had come up from Four Winds to spend the afternoon at Ingleside. She was finding her little house very lonely and empty since Mary Vance had left it two years previously, and while one's husband may constitute some form of company, Miss Cornelia really did enjoy being at Ingleside talking with Dr and Mrs Blythe, and having a nice little argument or two with Susan.

"Oh, he's to go to Toronto after Christmas to meet the rest of the team," said Anne, "and then they're to set sail for the Belgian Congo early in February."

"Belgian," muttered Susan, sorrowfully, knitting faster.

"How long will he be there, do you suppose?" asked Miss Cornelia.

"I don't think he's sure at the moment, but he guessed about four or six months."

"Well," said Susan, pursing her lips, "I don't but reckon the boy'll come home a heathen. I only hope that there'll be some nice missionaries there to remind him of the civilised world he comes from."

"Are we so civilised, Susan?" said the Doctor, gravely. "After the four years we've just spent in Europe?"

"Now, don't look at me like that, Doctor, dear - you know what I mean. I dare say a person could call the war an uncivilised act, but we were just defending ourselves. But those Africans are heathens, and that's all that can be said about it."

Anne and Gilbert exchanged amused glances as Susan attacked her knitting once again. Both thought of the late Mrs Rachel Lynde, whose opinions on religion had always been outspoken and uninformed and to which Susan's bore a striking resemblance. Still, Susan was a dear, harmless old soul who went to church on Sunday and kept all the Ten Commandments, and they could forgive her the occasional outburst.

"I'm very excited for him," said Anne, happily, her grey eyes slipping into that dreamy, faraway look that they often did at this time of day. "And I wish him all the luck in the world."

2

Christmas came to the Glen that year as another one of those brief, seasonal splashes of colour on an otherwise plain canvas, arriving and departing in record speed and serving only to remind Carl that all their lives had changed dramatically since the old days.

Time was when Christmas had been an event planned for and thought about from September onwards, with gift lists being made out and decorations unearthed from attics and cellars and cobwebby cupboards, and the day itself almost always brought thick, fluffy snow and a clear sky. The Manse table would groan with Rosemary's marvellous wintery concoctions, which were all devoured by five hungry youngsters in far less time than it took to prepare, and the whole day would pass in carefree, musical glee as presents were unwrapped and everyone went over to Ingleside for tea and cake.

Years later, the presents and the tea and cake were just as exciting and plentiful as they had ever been, but there was always lingering in the background the distinct sense that something was wrong with the annual Yuletide festivities. The snow came and the food was consumed, but Carl couldn't quite shake off the feeling of greyness. It was as though all the bright, captivating magic of the season had died away, leaving the bare bones of an old tradition which was nobly carried out nevertheless every December 25th.

It was a cold, wintery January morning when Carl boarded the Glen train to take him back to Kingsport, along with Jerry, Shirley, Di and Nan. Faith and Jem had returned a week earlier, and Una had not come home at all.

"Now, you've remembered everything, haven't you?" Rosemary implored, thrusting a bag of sandwiches and cake into Carl's hand through the open window. "Everything you need?"

"Everything," he told her, with an affectionate grin. "Don't worry - I'll be all right."

"Write, Carl," said his father, whose face had seemed over the past few weeks to regain all the world-weary lines that it had lost since the war. "As often as you can."

Carl felt a brief pang of emotion. He had not really stopped to think what his departure would do to his father, who had spent so many years worrying while he and Jerry and been in France. It seemed brutal to abandon him again, so soon afterwards. Perhaps I shouldn't be going at all, he thought, with a rising swell of concern. But his father smiled up at him from the platform, and gave his arm resting on the open window a warm squeeze.

"I'm very proud of you, my lad," he said, in a rather choked voice. "This is a wonderful chance. Make the most of every minute, and take good care of yourself."

Carl smiled back. Cecilia's smile, John Meredith reflected, tenderly. "Will do. Take care, both of you, and give my love to Una and Bruce when you see them next."

He joined the other four in the compartment that the girls had selected, and all of them hung out of the window waving to the small crowd on the platform, which seemed to get smaller every year. Then each turned back inside and collapsed into their seats.

"Well, I don't know about you," sighed Nan, wearily, "but that was the strangest holiday I think I've ever spent at home."

"I know," said Jerry, squeezing her begloved hand. "I felt pale and dreary the whole time, and I'm not even sure why!"

"Do you suppose it's because we've grown up?" suggested Di, rather mournfully. "I'd hate to think that Christmas gets dull when one grows up. If it does, I'd rather stay a little girl forever - although I suppose it's a bit late for that!"

Nan considered. "No, it can't be that," she said. "Do you remember what Mother used to be like as soon as December started? Every day was like a great, long, chuckly laugh, and she loved it just as much as we did!"

"Mother's never really grown up, though, has she?" said Shirley, with a smile.

"Maybe it's a overblown sense of responsibility," Jerry declared, with a teasing glance at Nan, who hated it when he began spouting inflated philosophies. "Disaffection and disgruntlement about the future. I know some days all I worry about is paying the rent on time and what to eat for dinner, not to mention which essays I've got to hand in and when."

"But I'm perfectly happy," laughed Di, her eyes becoming dreamy like her mother's all of a sudden. Carl suspected she was probably thinking of Noel, her beau of six months. "There is no possible reason why I shouldn't have enjoyed every minute of Christmas this year, but it felt so...so..."

"Wrong," finished Carl.

His monosyllable fell like a lead weight in the middle of the conversation, and everybody looked at him.

"Maybe we're all just out of sync," he went on with a shrug, deciding that he might as well air his view in the committee. "It's been rough lately, for obvious reasons. Perhaps we just need to resettle."

Di, who was sitting beside him, gave his arm an affectionate nudge. "As always, the voice of logic."

"You're just like Dad," observed Jerry, grinning. "Resettle. That's exactly it."

Carl shifted awkwardly in his seat as he always did on the rare occasions when he became the centre of attention. "Well," he muttered. "Hurry up and get married and maybe the rest of us will be influenced by your steady matrimonial bliss."

Nan burst into peals of hysterical laughter at this - her laugh was like a cool, bubbling brook running over stones - which prompted an exclamation of complaint from Jerry and subsequently started an argument. Carl, Di and Shirley beat a hasty retreat into the dining car.

"Eating your words, yet?" asked Shirley, with a smile, as soon as they had found a vacant table.

"My own irony amuses me," replied Carl.

"At least it's all good-natured arguing," said Di, although Carl thought she looked a little tired. Probably she had to bear hours of Nan complaining about her future husband after similar arguments up in Kingsport. "They make up afterwards quickly enough."

"Yes, it's disgusting," said Carl, in a perfect imitation of young Bruce, who was at the age when all displays of public affection are exceedingly embarrassing. The other two laughed.

"Oh, I shall miss you while you're away, Carl," smiled Di. "Six months! Will you manage for that long?"

"I hope so. I'll write, although I don't know how long I'll be able to send any letters to you. I doubt there's a very good postal service in the rainforest!"

"Write anyway," said Di, "and we'll read your letters when you get back and pretend we've gone back in time."

"Who's going with you, anyway," Shirley wanted to know. "You're taking a proper team, I suppose?"

"Mmm. Professor Stewart, of course, and Mrs Stewart..."

"A woman?" interrupted Di, in surprise.

"Yes, that's what I thought too at first, but I met Mrs Stewart just before Christmas in the Professor's office. She's...er...not exactly conventional."

"Tactfully put," said Di, with a laugh.

"And then there's Peter Mayton, who I haven't met yet. He's a doctor of geography at the Toronto Institution, and he's got quite a reputation."

"Oooh, what sort of reputation?"

"Nothing sensational," grinned Carl. "He's a bit of a loose cannon, I think, which is probably why he gets on so well with Professor Stewart. They're both mavericks - never do anything by the book! Maybe that's why I was asked to go. Oh, and Ellie Carbury - one of Hinksley's pet pupils in Toronto."

"Is she 'not exactly conventional' too?" asked Shirley, with one of his crinkly half-grins.

"I wouldn't know," replied Carl, airily. "She's never been on a field expedition before, but she seems perfectly intelligent."

"Who will guide you?" asked Di. "Does the Professor know the route himself?"

"Partly, but he's engaging the help of a local farmer and missionary called Henry Judder to see us through the trickiest part. They've worked together before and the Professor says he's perfectly reliable. We've got to meet up with him in Bendela."

"What's that?"

"A little village on the banks of the Kasai River. We have to take a steamer upriver from the harbour at Kitona, and we should reach Bendela after a few days."

Di leaned back in her chair. "I'd be petrified," she said, frankly. "But it sounds wonderful!"

"Yes," replied Carl, remembering his father's farewell smile. "Yes, it does, doesn't it?"

3

Three weeks later, Carl was on another train, speeding south-west towards the great city where his adventure was to begin.

He could see the tall buildings and chimney towers in the distance well before the train pulled into the station, with soft clouds hanging in the winter sky overhead, looking like a picture on an artist's canvas. The noise when he stepped out onto the platform was tremendous, with people dashing in all directions carrying luggage and dragging small children, waving their tickets at the porters. Brakes screeched and steam hissed and guards shouted to one another across the tracks, and a thick, swirling smoke enveloped everything.

It was hard for Carl to believe as his cab sped through the snowy Toronto streets that he would be in Africa in just over three weeks, without the homely comforts of clean clothes and wholesome meals. He was going to have to rough it, but he'd done that before.

"Here we are, sir," said the driver, eventually. He turned into a great, black, iron-wrought gateway between two stone pillars, one of which boasted a shiny brass sign with the words 'The Toronto Institution of Natural Science' emblazoned across it. "Posh place, isn't it?"

'Posh' was the word for it. The smooth driveway wound from the gate up to an imposing set of grassy terraces, all covered in a blanket of frosty-white snow, and undoubtedly one of the most enormous and palatial buildings Carl had ever seen in his life. It must have been at least eight floors high, with several towering gables and balconies, and the sort of richly decorated frontage that was seen on only the most stately city mansions. Fortunately it managed to be tasteful instead of loud, and it was with an honest air of awe and admiration that Carl stood gazing up at the facade.

He was by no means alone - plenty of people were bustling in and out of the main doors looking purposeful. Most of them were either middle-aged academics or young students, and Carl looked in vain for a familiar face among them. He was just about to go up the steps to the tall double doors when three people came out all talking together.

"...load of nonsense! I don't know why I put up with that sort of thing!"

"Oh, Joseph, don't worry yourself about it. You know what newspapers are like - just ignore them."

"My standard response to everything these days is 'No comment'! Ellie, my dear - where's she gone? - ah, there you are! You can tell that darned cousin of yours he can have an exclusive if he wants one. He seems the only intelligent, non-cringing blighter of a reporter I've yet come across, and...Why! Mr Meredith!"

Carl smiled back at Professor Stewart, whose broad, muscular proportions were increased considerably by his enormous gaberdine coat and at least three scarves. "Hullo, Professor!"

"You're early, my boy. I meant to send a car to the station for you."

"Well, I found my way here all right, sir."

"Yes, you did, you did. Well, we might as well go up to my office. That your cab? I say, my dear fellow, would you mind taking this gentleman's cases round to 17, Lavender Street? Mrs Bridges is the landlady, Mr Meredith, and a wonderful woman she is too. I'm sure you'll be quite comfortable with her. Here, that's all the change I've got, my man. No, no, say nothing of it, lad. Ellie, you take that envelope over to Dr. Carter, there's a good girl, and I'll see you back here at eight o'clock..."

Carl hadn't noticed the slim, fur-trimmed figure standing just behind the Professor's sizeable bulk. He noticed her now, with her elegant toffee-coloured tresses tucked up underneath a fashionable hat and her big brown eyes returning his gaze. As at their only other meeting - in the function room at Redmond before Christmas - her expression rather gave Carl the idea that she was appraising him behind that amiable smile.

The Professor was still talking, apparently to nobody in particular. Carl jumped when he heard his name.

"...having a small soireé this evening, Mr Meredith, for the expedition team. You will come?"

"Oh, yes, sir, certainly," replied Carl, hastily.

"Marvellous! You haven't met Mayton yet, have you? A fine chap. Are you coming up now, my dear?"

Mrs Stewart - a small, fine-looking lady of fifty-three with long auburn hair flecked with grey tied back in a bohemian braid - smiled at her husband and at Carl, and patted the latter gently on the arm.

"No, I'll leave you two together. I'm sure Mr Meredith wants to be updated on our plans. I'll see you this evening, both of you. Remember to dress smartly, Joseph - please?"

She went off briskly in the direction of the main gates, her braid swinging from side to side. Ellie took the envelope that the Professor handed her, and then she too strode off towards an annex, casting Carl a sideways glance and a smile that was almost shy. He watched her departing figure with unrestrained appreciation, wondering absently whether he would ever entirely understand her.

"Right, let's go in, shall we?" said the Professor, having apparently forgotten whatever business had brought him outside in the first place. "We've got a lot to get through."

He led the way into a narrow porch, where a doorman lingered in the shadows in his smart livery, and through another set of glass doors to a vast entrance hall. The high-vaulted ceiling and the long, thin windows put Carl in mind of a great English cathedral, with the same smooth flagstone floor and bare walls. A grand, sweeping staircase was directly opposite the door, splitting in two at the wall and diverging along both sides of the hall to the levels above. In the dim corners were rows of cabinets containing what Carl imagined to be specimens from previous expeditions, and a secretary's desk behind which a bespectacled lady in her mid-forties was sitting scribbling away on a pad of paper. The telephone beside her was ringing frantically, but she ignored it and scribbled on.

"Impressive place, isn't it?" said the Professor, observing Carl's wide-eyed expression. His voice echoed in the cavernous room and made the secretary jump, breaking her nib. "Built in 1800 by Charles Orpington-Randolph, and the finest edifice in East Canada. Up the stairs, my boy, and take the left-hand side. It'll be like a maze to you at first, but you'll soon find your way around."

"What do you use all the rooms for?" asked Carl. "There must be well over a hundred in here!"

"Two hundred and eleven, if you count the annexes," replied the Professor, with a proud smile. "Fifty are offices for old academics like me who sit here like pieces of antique furniture gathering dust; twelve are lecture rooms for our private events; six are reception rooms; fifteen are cloakrooms; twenty-four are old boxrooms; three are libraries; the staff have about forty-five rooms in the cellars and the attics; and all the rest are used either for administration purposes or for housing our museum pieces for research. I haven't been an associate here for thirty-two years without learning something about the old pile, you know," he finished, with a hearty guffaw.

They turned down a wide corridor that ran alongside the rear wall of the building, with tall windows overlooking a pleasantly neat garden and courtyard. The Professor eventually stopped after several turns and forks at a large wooden door, which he opened using a key from one of his pockets.

"Take a chair, Mr Meredith, and I'll ring for some tea. I usually have something about this hour."

The Professor's office was a large, commodious room with a handsome fireplace and a windowseat, but most of his bookshelves and desk drawers were spilling their contents out onto the floor. Carl felt himself warm to the Professor all over again when he spotted among the crumpled papers on his desk a copy of The Dreaded Curse Of The Egyptian Prince, a spine-chilling novel of death, disaster and passionate desert romance by G.A. Huddersleigh, and a tray of old cups and saucers with rings showing the level of their since-drunk contents which had obviously been accumulating over time.

Carl sank into the chair facing the desk, while the Professor swept a pile of books and papers into an open drawer and perched on the space to make a telephone call.

"Er, hullo, Miss Timpson? Ah, good morning, my dear! Perishing weather today, isn't it? Yes - could I trouble you for some tea? For two? Ah, excellent. Many thanks."

He replaced the receiver and began rifling through a drawer, searching for something.

"Well, Mr Meredith, here we are - about to embark on our little adventure. Where is the blasted thing? How are you feeling about it?"

"Can't wait to leave, sir," said Carl, earnestly.

"Good. Enthusiasm - that's what I like to see! Didn't get much of it before the war, you know. Too many wealthy, layabout young men with the brains and the time for this kind of thing, but no bloody enthusiasm. A little effort, that's all I ask! Oh, for goodness' sake, I only put the darned thing here yesterday!"

Carl had known Professor Stewart long enough at Redmond to appreciate that tact and gentle handling were not his strong points. One took his scathing, merciless remarks in the humour in which they were made - for the purposes of strengthening one's attitude and improving oneself intellectually. All Stewart's pupils took their degrees knowing a good deal more about life and human nature than the pupils of more sympathetic, conventional tutors, and Carl had the feeling that any lingering sense of quixotic sentimentality which the war had not knocked out of him would be knocked out by Professor Stewart during their forthcoming venture. He smiled to himself as the Professor continued raiding his desk for his elusive quarry.

"Well, Mr Meredith, I realise that this is your first field expedition," he went on, over the rustling and banging noises, "so you're bound to be a trifle nervous. Got to be a first time for everyone. AH! There it is! Knew it was here somewhere!"

He presented Carl with a dogeared piece of paper on which was printed a map of the Belgian Congo, with all the major locations marked.

"This is our route. We'll meet up with Judder here, after which we'll probably have to travel on foot. It won't be easy, but just think of it as a nice walk in the country."

Carl personally thought that nothing could possibly be less like a nice walk in the country, but he took a deep breath and studied the map. A large section to the north-east of Bendela was blank and marked 'unknown'.

"Sir, how difficult exactly do you expect it to be? I mean, will it be simply physically arduous, or are there other dangers to be aware of?"

The Professor sighed and gave a little shrug. "I can't say for sure. Ten miles upriver from Judder's plantation is the furthest I've been in this area, and his own native workers live downriver. No-one, to my knowledge, has ever been further into the jungle than that ten-mile mark."

"So, you're saying that anything could be there?"

"No, not entirely. One must apply one's brain in instances such as these. For example, there are several dangers common to travelling in Africa which we may eliminate, because of the density of the forest and the things we know of the area nearest at hand. I shan't bore you with the details, but suffice it to say that I expect nothing particularly perilous. It is simply a matter of finding a way through the undergrowth, and not falling victim to the usual problems - uneven terrain, lack of water, irate alpha-male gorillas, the more unpredictable things, you know. We are on a research mission, Mr Meredith, and I don't expect trouble."

Carl admired the Professor's self-assurance. The task of leading five people, plus bearers and equipment, through a never-before-penetrated area of rainforest was not an enviable one. It would require phenomenal knowledge and experience to get everyone through safe and sound.

"Oh, don't worry, my boy," the Professor went on, with a grin. "Judder is a first-class guide, with more brain-cells than many of the dimwitted youngsters we get come up here from the universities, their mother's milk scarcely dry upon their lips. With both he and I with you, you couldn't be in safer hands!"

He went on talking for another hour and a half, about the aims of the expedition, all the emergency procedures, and a vague outline of the time it would take to reach Kitona, and from Kitona to the bigger settlement of Kinshasa where they were to spend a few days organising their equipment, and from Kinshasa to Judder's plantation at Bendela. He gave a detailed description of how he liked his catalogues to be made, with date, time and a full account of the subject in question; he rattled off a list of every item each team-member would be bringing, plus the equipment to be carried by the bearers; he recounted some stories of past errors and unexpected problems during his previous expeditions, and then went on to talk about the customs and habits of the native Africans, and how one should respect their culture.

Carl listened in a daze, feeling as though he had been transported into a strange new world, where he didn't fully understand the language and wasn't entirely sure what he was doing there in the first place. An unpleasant feeling began to swell inside him, making his heart beat faster and his palms perspire. Everything he had ever learned about bugs, beetles and small creatures seemed to have disappeared from his mind, leaving him feeling considerably foolish and very, very inadequate.

"Sir?" he blurted out, interrupting the Professor mid-sentence.

The Professor blinked. "Yes, my boy?"

Carl swallowed nervously. The time had come to take Shirley's advice.

"If you don't mind me asking, sir, why did you ask me to come with you? I mean, I have absolutely no qualifications, no experience, there must be at least fifty other students at Redmond who could be far more useful to you...I can't speak the language, I've only ever done very basic fieldwork, I know absolutely nothing about Africa..."

He paused, and looked anxiously at the Professor's face. It was a blank, impassive mask, and Carl couldn't tell whether he was angry or not.

"The thing is, sir," he went on, bravely, "I'm not sure that I won't be a bigger problem for you than I would be a help."

The next few seconds ticked by in silence, with Carl staring into the Professor's age-worn, expressionless eyes.

Might as well go straight back to the station and go home, he thought, miserably.

The Professor cleared his throat and twiddled his thumbs. Then he leaned forward onto the desk and looked straight at Carl.

"Mr Meredith," he began, in a soft tone that Carl recollected hearing from him only once or twice before in his life. "Mr Meredith, I'm going to be frank with you, since you have just done so with me.

"I do not expect wonders. I should consider it nothing short of a miracle if you were to launch yourself into this expedition with all the confidence of a sixty-one year-old professional like myself. I do not want another confident professional on my team. My wife, and several of my colleagues here and at Redmond College, will no doubt inform you that I am a tyrant when in charge of a project, and I require my staff to do as I tell them. That is, if they intend to stay alive.

"What I want you for, Mr Meredith, is to assist me. Dr. Mayton is a geographer, and he has an entirely separate agenda for research. Miss Carbury is on Hinksley's strength and is coming along for purposes of botanical study. Mrs Stewart is not a scientist but a linguist, and acts as an intermediary for us and the native Africans. She is also in charge of hiring the bearers and keeping account of our expenses and equipment. I, Mr Meredith, am a zoologist. I study creatures and insects, like you do. But I am getting on in years and I need to train up a younger fellow to take my place when I can't scamper about the world as easily as I can now. You, my dear boy, are that fellow, and you are that fellow because I see potential in you. You will not argue with me, because I am right. My confidence in you makes up for any lack of confidence you may have in yourself. I beg you to trust me."

Carl sat in astonishment all the way through this extraordinary speech, his mouth opening and closing like a goldfish.

The Professor made a satisfied noise and consulted his watch. "A quarter to one, good heavens. We've talked the morning away. I shall see you at eight this evening, my boy, if you can bear to attend this...this... whateveryoucallit of Mrs Stewart's. Not one for socialising as a rule, me, but one must go through the motions I suppose. You'll meet Mayton tonight - he's a good chap."

Carl had somehow during the interval been moved from his chair opposite the Professor's desk to the office door, and now found himself being shaken by the hand and bidden farewell.

"Er...yes...thankyou, sir," he said, in bewilderment, as the Professor clapped him on the shoulder and closed the door, leaving Carl alone in the corridor.

4

Carl wandered very slowly along the hallway, trying to get his thoughts in order. Had he really just blurted out all his insecurities to the man he most wanted to impress and please? Yes, apparently he had. And what had that man replied? That he was not expecting perfection and that it was his intention to train Carl up to the proper standard and make him into a real scientist.

Carl shook himself, wondering if he was actually awake or whether this was some surreal dream he was trapped inside. Any moment now he would wake up and find himself lying fully-clothed on the sofa, with books and papers scattered all about him, as happened with remarkable regularity when he was at Redmond. He had lost count of the times Shirley had come down and found him there, prodded him until he woke up and then observed placidly that he was just as absent-minded as Rev. Meredith used to be.

"It's not that I avoid doing things because I don't want to do them!" he had explained to Rosemary one day when he was fifteen, after he had omitted to do something she had asked him to do. "I just forget!"

She had given him one of her loving, generous hugs and kissed him on the cheek. "You live in your own little world, Carl - just like your father," she said, smiling. "Just promise me that from time to time you'll come out and visit us."

Dear Rosemary. She understood perfectly.

Lost in his thoughts, Carl didn't notice the figure coming towards him, her nose buried in a book. They collided, and he put out his arms to steady her, finding himself looking down into the beguiling eyes of Ellie Carbury.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said, merrily. "I wasn't looking where I was going. This is absolutely fascinating, and I just couldn't put it down. Did I hurt you?"

She was quite small, Carl thought to himself, absently. The top of her head only just reached his shoulder, and her whole frame was slight. The mere idea of her being able to hurt him struck him as rather funny.

"No, I'm all right. Are you?"

"Perfectly. Have you been with the Professor?"

"Yes."

"Did he wear you out?"

"Why do you say that?"

She gave an elegant shrug. "An hour is about as much of the Professor as I can cope with in one go. How I shall survive six months of him in the jungle is a matter I care not to speculate upon. Do you like him?"

Carl blinked. "Yes, I do. Although I can understand some people not liking him. The sensitive, the uncertain, the ignorant..."

"You're not sensitive, uncertain or ignorant, though, are you?"

"No."

She tossed her head. "Good. I'm always worried I'll upset sensitive people, and I'm afraid I don't have much patience for the ignorant. Uncertainty is, I suppose, less of a personality flaw and rather a recurring demon that pops up every now and then. I can sympathise with that."

Carl found himself feeling disposed to laugh. She was perplexing, this girl. One minute she was lording it over him for being two years ahead of him in the academic world, and the next she was smiling openly at him and talking about human emotions.

"I confess I'm feeling a little uncertain right now," he admitted.

"Of course you are; so am I."

They had been walking together down to the entrance hall, and now they came to the top of the stairs and stopped. The soft light pouring in through the long windows made thin pools on the flagstone floor and showed up all the miniscule particles in the air. It looked like a scene from a great Victorian novel about grandeur and dominion.

Ellie leaned on the wall and looked thoughtful.

"What are you worried about?" she asked, with surprising frankness. "I mean, about going to Africa."

"Plenty of things, I guess," replied Carl. "That I won't be up to the task, perhaps." He cast a sideways glance at her and smiled. She tossed her head again, but her expression was sufficiently chastened.

"You've been to war, though," she said, quietly. "After that, surely you can't be frightened of anything."

Carl was silent for a moment or two. He hated talking about it, and he hated it when other people talked about it around him, but somehow he didn't feel the customary unpleasant clawing inside his stomach this time. Something in her tone - something almost undetectable under that airy, polite facade - gave him the impression that she wanted him to say something comforting.

"No," he replied, at last. "It just made me see how many things there are in the world that can frighten me." He dropped his eyes. Looking at her lovely face while recalling such horrible memories seemed like an act of pure sacrilege. "But I suppose it made me realise too that I can get through them."

She moved a bit closer to him, as though she wanted to ease his pain, and her gaze fell upon the thin, jagged scar running across his eye.

"Is that where you got this?" she asked, tentatively.

Automatically, without thinking, he stepped back and away from her.

"I'm sorry," she began, "I didn't mean to upset you."

He thought her eyes looked a little damp, but her posture was so defensive and haughty he decided he must be mistaken.

"Are you going to Mrs Stewart's soirée this evening?" he asked, keeping his voice steady and impersonal.

"Yes."

"I'll see you later, then."

Carl turned around and went briskly down the stairs before he knew what he was doing.

Force of habit, I suppose, he thought to himself, as his footsteps echoed around the hall. Run away, whenever anyone mentions it.

By the time he reached the porch doors the roaring of blood in his temples had stopped, and he looked back. She had disappeared. He felt indescribably repentant.

What is this girl? What is she doing to me?

A big thankyou to everyone who reviewed! I'mreally happy you like it so far, and I hope you'll stay with me!

Blythetwin: you're quite right, Mary Vance is Mary Douglas now, but I imagined that the Rainbow Valley crowd would probably not be able to get out of the habit of calling her 'Mary Vance' - I know whenever I think of her, she's never just 'Mary', but always 'Mary-Vance'!

Miri and lena-jade: I'm glad you like Una! I was a bit worried about how that was going to come off, but it seems to have worked out all right after all! She'll be making an appearance again later in the story, and she'll be VERY important.

marzoog, Bride Bettany, and EmilyoftheTansyPatch: I'm so pleasedyou like it so far! I'm having lots of fun writing it ;-)

xxx