seek.  He had despised them and their silly game, but, on the other hand, they did not know who he was and would not make fun of him and taunt him with unpaid bills, and it had been rather nice to listen to their cheerful voices.  The ruins, too, had fired his imagination.  He had viewed them much as a general views the scene of a prospective battle.  And then—­strangest attraction of all—­there had been Frances Wilmot.  She was different from any other little girl he had ever seen.  She was clean and had worn a neat green serge dress with neat brown shoes and stockings which toned with her short curly brown hair, but she did not shine or look superior or disdainful.  Nor had she been playing with her companions, though they ran back to her from time to time as though in some secret way she had led their game.  When Robert had come upon her she was sitting on the foundations of what was to have been a magnificent portico, her arms clasped about her knees, and a curious intent look on her pointed delicate face.  That intent look, as he was to discover, was very constant with her.  It was as though she were always watching something of absorbing interest which no one else could see.  Sometimes it amused her, and and then a flicker of laughter ran up from her mouth to her grey eyes and danced there.  At other times she was sorry.  Her face was like still water, ruffled by invisible winds and mirroring distant clouds and sunshine.

Robert had watched her, motionless and unobserved, for several minutes.  It had been a very unhappy day.  Christine had gone off in a great hurry on some dark errand in the city connected with “raising money” on a reversion and had forgotten to wash him, and though he did not like being washed, the process did at least make him feel that someone cared about him.  Now at sight of this strange little girl an almost overpowering desire to cry had come over him—­to fling himself into someone’s arms and cry his heart out.

She had not sat there for long.  She had got up and moved about—­flitted rather—­so that Robert, who had never heard of a metaphor, thought of a brown leaf dancing in little gusts of wind.  And then suddenly she had seen him and stood still.  His heart had begun to pound against his ribs.  For it was just like that that in his dreams his mother stood, looking at him.  She, too, had grey eyes, serene and grave, penetrating into one’s very heart.

And after a moment she had smiled.

“Hallo!”

Robert’s voice, half choked with tears had croaked back “Hallo!” and she had come a little nearer to him.

“What’s your name?”

“Robert—­Robert Stonehouse.”

“Where do you come from?”

He had jerked his head vaguely in the direction of the hill, for he did not want her to know.

“Over there.”

“Why are you crying?”

“I—­I don’t know.”

“Would you like to play with us?”