“It’s all right.  He’s asleep,” said the boy.

“Oh, do be careful! you’ll wake him,” whispered the girl.

“Are you afraid?”

“No, why should I be afraid of my father, stupid?”

“I tell you he’s not father any more.  He’s a murderer,” the boy said hotly.  “He told me, I tell you.  He said, `I have killed your mother, Ray,’ and I went and looked, and mother was all red.  I simply shouted, and she wouldn’t answer.  That means she’s dead.  His hand was all red, too.”

“Was it paint?”

“No, of course it wasn’t paint.  It was blood.  And then he came down here and went to sleep.”

“Poor father, so tired.”

“He’s not poor father, he’s not father at all; he’s a murderer, and it is very wicked of you to call him father,” said the boy.

“Father,” muttered the girl rebelliously.

“You know the sixth commandment says `Thou shalt do no murder,’ and he has done murder; so he’ll go to hell.  And you’ll go to hell too if you call him father.  It’s all in the Bible.”

The boy ended vaguely, but the little girl was quite overcome by the thought of her badness.

“Oh, I am wicked!” she cried.  “And I do so want to go to heaven.”

She had a stout and materialistic belief in it as a place of sheeted angels and harps, where it was easy to be good.

“You must do as I tell you, then,” he said.  “Because I know.  I’ve learnt all about it at school.”

“And you never told me,” said she reproachfully.

“Ah, there’s lots of things I know,” he replied, nodding his head.

“What must we do?” said the girl meekly.  “Shall I go and ask mother?”

The boy was sick at her obstinacy.

“Mother’s dead, I tell you; that means she can’t hear anything.  It’s no use talking to her; but I know.  You must stop here, and if father wakes you run out of the house and call `Police!’ and I will go now and tell a policeman now.”

“And what happens then?” she asked, with round eyes at her brother’s wisdom.

“Oh, they come and take him away to prison.  And then they put a rope round his neck and hang him like Haman, and he goes to hell.”

“Wha-at!  Do they kill him?”

“Because he’s a murderer.  They always do.”

“Oh, don’t let’s tell them!  Don’t let’s tell them!” she screamed.

“Shut up!” said the boy, “or he’ll wake up.  We must tell them, or we go to hell—­both of us.”

But his sister did not collapse at this awful threat, as he expected, though the tears were rolling down her face.  “Don’t let’s tell them,” she sobbed.

“You’re a horrid girl, and you’ll go to hell,” said the boy, in disgust.  But the silence was only broken by her sobbing.  “I tell you he killed mother dead.  You didn’t cry a bit for mother; I did.”

“Oh, let’s ask mother!  Let’s ask mother!  I know she won’t want father to go to hell.  Let’s ask mother!”