“Sing it again, Ronny.”

She sang it again.

     “‘London Bridge is broken down’”—­

It was funny of Michael to like the silly, childish song; but if he wanted it he should have it.  Veronica would have given any of them anything they wanted.  There was nothing that she had ever wanted that they had not given to her.

She had wanted to be strong, to be able to run and ride, to play tennis and cricket and hockey, and Nicky had shown her how.  She had wanted books of her own, and Auntie Frances, and Uncle Anthony and Dorothy and Michael had given her books, and Nicky had made her a bookcase.  Her room (it was all her own) was full of treasures.  She had wanted to learn to sing and play properly, and Uncle Anthony had given her masters.  She had wanted people to love her music, and they loved it.  She had wanted a big, grown-up sister like Dorothy, and they had given her Dorothy; and she had wanted a little brother of her own age, and they had given her John.  John had a look of Nicky.  His golden white hair was light brown now; his fine, wide mouth had Nicky’s impudence, even when, like Frances, he kept it shut to smile her unwilling, twitching, mocking smile.  She had wanted a father and mother like Frances and Anthony; and they had given her themselves.

And she had wanted to live in the same house with Nicky always.

So if Michael wanted her to sing “London Bridge” to him twenty times over, she would sing it, provided Nicky didn’t ask her to do anything else at the same time.  For she wanted to do most for Nicky, always.

And yet she was aware of something else that was not happiness.  It was not a thing you could name or understand, or seize, or see; you were simply aware of it, as you were aware of ghosts in your room at night.  Like the ghosts, it was not always there; but when it was there you knew.

It felt sometimes as if Auntie Frances was afraid of her; as if she, Veronica, was a ghost.

And Veronica said to herself, “She is afraid I am not good.  She thinks I’ll worry her.  But I shan’t.”

That was before the holidays.  Now that they had come and Nicky was back, “it” seemed to her something to do with Nicky; and Veronica said to herself, “She is afraid I’ll get in his way and worry him, because he’s older.  But I shan’t.”

As if she had not been taught and trained not to get in older people’s ways and worry them.  And as if she wasn’t growing older every minute herself!

     “’Build it up with gold so fine—­
     (Ride over my Lady Leigh!)

* * * * *

     “‘Build it up with stones so strong’”—­

She had her back to the door and to the mirror that reflected it, yet she knew that Nicky had come in.

“That’s the song you used to sing at bed-time when you were frightened,” he said.

She was sitting now in the old hen-house that was Nicky’s workshop, watching him as he turned square bars of brass into round bars with his lathe.  She had plates of steel to polish, and pieces of wood to rub smooth with glass-paper.  There were sheets of brass and copper, and bars and lumps of steel, and great poles and planks of timber reared up round the walls of the workshop.  The metal filings fell from Nicky’s lathe into sawdust that smelt deliciously.