That same afternoon as Miss Charity Oliver came down the hill on her first errand as Relief Visitor, at the corner by Mrs Pengelly’s she happened on young ’Biades, posted solitary before the shop-window.  There was something queer in this:  for the elder children had started a game of tig, down by the bridge—­that is to say, within earshot—­ and as a rule any such game attracted ’Biades fatally to its periphery, where he would stand with his eyes rounded and his heart sick for the time when he would be grown up and invited to join in.  To-day his back was turned to the fun.

Miss Oliver, however, knew no more of ’Biades ways than that on her approach as a rule he either fled precipitately or, if no retreat offered itself, stood stock-still, put a finger in his mouth, and seemed to be calling on some effort of the will to make him invisible.  To-day he met her accost easily, familiarly, even with what in a grown male might have been taken for a drunken leer.

“Well, my little man!” said Miss Oliver.  “And what might you be doing here, all by yourself?”

“Choosin’,” answered ’Biades.  Reluctantly he withdrew his eyes again from gloating on Mrs Pengelly’s miscellaneous exhibits.  “I ’spect it’ll end in peppermint lumps, but I’d rather have trousers if a whole penny would run to ’em.”

He held out his palm, exhibiting a coin over which his fingers quickly closed again.

“What’s that money you have?” asked Miss Oliver sharply.

“A penny,” answered the child.  “A whole penny.  I like peppermint lumps, but they smell so strong in your breath that ’Bert and ’Beida would find out an’ want to share.  Of course trousers are found out quite as easy, or easier.  But you can’t go shares in trousers:  not,” added ’Biades thoughtfully, “if you try ever so.”

“May I see the pretty penny?” coaxed Miss Oliver:  for in the glimpse allowed her it had seemed an extraordinarily bright and yellow one.

“You mustn’ come no nearer than you are now,” said ’Biades, backing a little.  After an inward struggle he opened his fingers and disclosed the coin.

“Where did you get that?” Miss Oliver’s eyes were notoriously sharp.  Her voice rapped out the question in a way that made ’Biades blink and clasp the coin again as he cast a desperate look behind him in search of retreat.

“Mr Nanjivell gave it to me.”

“Mr Nanjivell! . . .  He couldn’t!” Miss Oliver took a step forward.  ’Biades lowered his head.

“If you come a step closer I’ll butt ’ee!” He threatened.  “Mr Nanjivell gave it to me,” he repeated, and, seeing her taken aback, soared upon the wing of falsehood.  “Mother’s changing houses, an’ Mr Nanjivell said I’d behaved so quiet I deserved a penny if ever a boy did in this world.”

“A penny?” Miss Oliver echoed.  “But where did he—­how did he come across that kind of penny?  Such a bright penny, I mean.”