“Promise you won’t go while I say my prayers!”

“I promise.”

Kneeling down and plunging his face into the bed, little Jon hurried up, under his breath, opening one eye now and then, to see her standing perfectly still with a smile on her face.  “Our Father”—­so went his last prayer, “which art in heaven, hallowed be thy Mum, thy Kingdom Mum—­on Earth as it is in heaven, give us this day our daily Mum and forgive us our trespasses on earth as it is in heaven and trespass against us, for thine is the evil the power and the glory for ever and ever.  Amum!  Look out!” He sprang, and for a long minute remained in her arms.  Once in bed, he continued to hold her hand.

“You won’t shut the door any more than that, will you?  Are you going to be long, Mum?”

“I must go down and play to Daddy.”

“Oh! well, I shall hear you.”

“I hope not; you must go to sleep.”

“I can sleep any night.”

“Well, this is just a night like any other.”

“Oh! no—­it’s extra special.”

“On extra special nights one always sleeps soundest.”

“But if I go to sleep, Mum, I shan’t hear you come up.”

“Well, when I do, I’ll come in and give you a kiss, then if you’re awake you’ll know, and if you’re not you’ll still know you’ve had one.”

Little Jon sighed, “All right!” he said:  “I suppose I must put up with that.  Mum?”

“Yes?”

“What was her name that Daddy believes in?  Venus Anna Diomedes?”

“Oh! my angel!  Anadyomene.”

“Yes! but I like my name for you much better.”

“What is yours, Jon?”

Little Jon answered shyly: 

“Guinevere! it’s out of the Round Table—­I’ve only just thought of it, only of course her hair was down.”

His mother’s eyes, looking past him, seemed to float.

“You won’t forget to come, Mum?”

“Not if you’ll go to sleep.”

“That’s a bargain, then.”  And little Jon screwed up his eyes.

He felt her lips on his forehead, heard her footsteps; opened his eyes to see her gliding through the doorway, and, sighing, screwed them up again.

Then Time began.

For some ten minutes of it he tried loyally to sleep, counting a great number of thistles in a row, “Da’s” old recipe for bringing slumber.  He seemed to have been hours counting.  It must, he thought, be nearly time for her to come up now.  He threw the bedclothes back.  “I’m hot!” he said, and his voice sounded funny in the darkness, like someone else’s.  Why didn’t she come?  He sat up.  He must look!  He got out of bed, went to the window and pulled the curtain a slice aside.  It wasn’t dark, but he couldn’t tell whether because of daylight or the moon, which was very big.  It had a funny, wicked face, as if laughing at him, and he did not want to look at it.  Then, remembering that his mother had said moonlit nights were beautiful, he continued to stare out in a general way.  The trees threw thick shadows, the lawn looked like spilt milk, and a long, long way he could see; oh! very far; right over the world, and it all looked different and swimmy.  There was a lovely smell, too, in his open window.