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been eavesdropping again, she was certain, and she never did feel quite right about it—although she had to admit it did have its uses.
    " Well, I cannot see why he should think that," Psyche replied, wrinkling her nose. "I detest improving tales." She sighed. "But Papa does like to believe the best of us, and so perhaps he has forgotten that I do not like such stories." Psyche gazed at Harry questioningly, hoping that he might enlighten her as to her father's state of mind.
    Harry shrugged his shoulders and looked bored. He opened the window that Cassandra had just closed and looked out at the street. A small breeze lifted one lock of his golden hair and a ray of sun suddenly broke through the clouds to shine upon his face. He glanced at her and smiled.
    Psyche smiled back. She was glad he had decided to come with her to London, for otherwise she'd be bored to tears. Sometimes she would accompany Mama and Cassandra on a shopping expedition or drive to one of the parks. But aside from these activities and her discovery of many delightful Minerva Press novels, as well as attending to Cassandra giving her lessons in geography and the Italian language, there was little for Psyche to do. So she was thankful that Harry was here. There is nothing like a change in one's circumstances, she thought, to make one appreciate one's friends. And Harry was her very best friend, for she had known him ever since she was a very little girl.
    She 'd been about seven years old at the time—really not much more than a baby. She'd been with her older brother Kenneth near the lake at their country home. Awaking from a doze in the sun, she had found that Kenneth had either hidden himself or had left her alone, and it was growing quite dark. Crying because she could not find her way back home, she stumbled into the woods that circled part of the lake and grew more frightened.
    And then there he was. Psyche had thought he was one of those angels her nurse had told her about, for he had white wings and wore white clothing. But he had laughed at her and shook his head when she asked him this, and he told her his name. Well, it was hard to get her tongue around it then, so she had called him Harry instead, and never bothered to change it.
    He grew up, as she did, although he seemed always to be a few years older than she was—he looked to be twelve or thirteen years of age now, although he would never tell her how old he actually was. She had learned more about him, however, not so much from Harry, for he found such things tedious to relate—but from her father's books. He looked a little like the pictures in those books, although his nose didn't come down straight from his forehead like the people depicted in them had, but it looked like her own quite normal one.
    She wished the rest of her resembled Harry, for she was short rather than tall, and instead of blue eyes and blond hair, she had a mop of unruly red curls and large, undistinguished gray eyes. She 'd learned that his dress—for it looked like a very short dress, indeed—was called a chiton. Psyche thought that perhaps she should have been embarrassed that his bare legs showed, or when he'd unpin one shoulder of his chiton when he shot his arrows, but he was Harry, and she'd known him for so long that it did not matter. But his arrows! Those were another thing altogether.
    In fact, Harry was pulling one from his ever-present quiver right now, his gaze intent on something in the street below. A wide, crooked grin was forming on his lips. Psyche knew that grin, and alarm flashed through her.
    "What are you doing? Get away from that window!"
    It was too late. He drew back his bow and loosed the arrow before she could rush to his side.
    "A hit!" he crowed. "Two with one shot!"
    " Oh, Harry!" Psyche cried.
    She leaned out the window to see whom he had struck. There! A tall young man held a fainting lady in his arms. The arrow had apparently hit the young man through the arm and scratched the