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hushed silence and then the screams broke out; the horse had gone mad and was dashing blindly through the crowds.
    We stared in horror. Captain Carmichael made for the door, but my mother clung to his arm.
    “No! No!” she cried. “No, Jock. It’s unsafe down there.”
    “The poor creature has gone wild with terror. He only needs proper handling.”
    “No, Jock, no!”
    My attention had turned from the square to those two—she was clinging to his arm, begging him not to go down.
    When I looked again the horse had fallen. There was chaos. Several people had been hurt. Some were shouting, some were crying; the happy scene had become one of tragedy.
    “There is nothing, nothing you can do,” sobbed my mother. “Oh, Jock, please stay with us. I couldn’t bear …”
    Olivia, who loved horses as much as I did, was weeping for the poor animal.
    Some men had arrived on horseback and there were people with stretchers. I tried not to hear the shot as it rang out. I knew it was the best thing possible for the horse who must have injured himself too badly to recover.
    The police had arrived. The streets were cleared. A hush had fallen on us all. What an end to a day of rejoicing.
    Captain Carmichael tried to be merry again.
    “It’s life,” he said ruefully.
    It was late afternoon when the carriage took us home. In the carriage my mother sat between Olivia and me and put an arm around each of us.
    “Let’s remember only the nice things,” she said. “It was wonderful, wasn’t it … before …”
    We agreed that it had been.
    “And you saw the Queen and all the Kings and Princes. You’ll always remember that part, won’t you? Don’t let’s think about the accident, eh? Don’t let’s even talk about it … to anyone.”
    We agreed that would be best.
    The next day Miss Bell took us for a walk in the Park. Everywhere there were tents for the poor children who were gathered there—thirty thousand of them, and to the strains of military bands each child was presented with a currant bun and a mug of milk. The mugs were a gift to them—Jubilee mugs inscribed to the glory of the great Queen.
    “They will remember it forever,” said Miss Bell. “As we all shall.” And she talked about the Kings and Princes and told us a little about the countries from which they came, exercising her talent for turning every event into a lesson.
    It was all very interesting and neither Olivia nor I mentioned the accident. I heard some of the servants discussing it.
    ” ‘ere, d’you know. There was a terrible accident … near Waterloo Place, they say. An ‘orse run wild … ‘undreds was ‘urt, and had to be took to ‘ospital.”
    “Horses,” said her companion. “In the streets. Ought not to be allowed.”
    “Well, ‘ow’d you get about without ‘em, eh?”
    “They shouldn’t be allowed to run wild, that’s what.”
    I resisted the temptation to join in and tell them that I had been a spectator. Somewhere at the back of my mind was the knowledge that it would be dangerous to do so.
    It was late afternoon. My mother, I think, was preparing for dinner. There were no guests that evening, but even so preparations were always lengthy—guests or no guests. She and my father would dine alone at the big dining table at which I had never sat. Olivia reminded me that when we “came out,” which would be when we were seventeen, we should dine there with our parents. I was rather fond of my food and I could not imagine anything more likely to rob me of my appetite than to be obliged to eat under the eyes of my father. But the prospect was so far in the future that it did not greatly disturb me.
    It must have been about seven o’clock. I was on the way to the schoolroom where we had our meals with Miss Bell—we always partook of bread and butter and a glass of milk before retiring—when to my horror I came face to face with my father. I almost ran into him and pulled up sharply as he loomed up before me.
    “Oh,” he