Accustomed to the resources of Stanley’s establishment, or at least to those of John’s and Felix’s, and of the hotels she stayed at, she felt for a moment just a little nonplussed at discovering at her disposal nothing but three dear little children playing with a dog, and one bicycle.  For a few seconds she looked at the latter hard.  If only it had been a tricycle!  Then, feeling certain that she could not make it into one, she knew that she must make the best of it, especially as, in any case, she could not have used it, for it would never do to leave darling Nedda alone in the house.  She decided therefore to look in every room to see if she could find the things she wanted.  The dog, who had been attracted by her, left the children and came too, and the children, attracted by the dog, followed; so they all five went into a room on the ground floor.  It was partitioned into two by a screen; in one portion was a rough camp bedstead, and in the other two dear little child’s beds, that must once have been Derek’s and Sheila’s, and one still smaller, made out of a large packing-case.  The eldest of the little children said: 

“That’s where Billy sleeps, Susie sleeps here, and I sleeps there; and our father sleeped in here before he went to prison.”  Frances Freeland experienced a shock.  To prison!  The idea of letting these little things know such a thing as that!  The best face had so clearly not been put on it that she decided to put it herself.

“Oh, not to prison, dear!  Only into a house in the town for a little while.”

It seemed to her quite dreadful that they should know the truth—­it was simply necessary to put it out of their heads.  That dear little girl looked so old already, such a little mother!  And, as they stood about her, she gazed piercingly at their heads.  They were quite clean.

The second dear little thing said: 

“We like bein’ here; we hope Father won’t be comin’ back from prison for a long time, so as we can go on stayin’ here.  Mr. Freeland gives us apples.”

The failure of her attempt to put a nicer idea into their heads disconcerted Frances Freeland for a moment only.  She said: 

“Who told you he was in prison?”

Biddy answered slowly:  “Nobody didn’t tell us; we picked it up.”

“Oh, but you should never pick things up!  That’s not at all nice.  You don’t know what harm they may do you.”

Billy replied:  “We picked up a dead cat yesterday.  It didn’t scratch a bit, it didn’t.”

And Biddy added:  “Please, what is prison like?”

Pity seized on Frances Freeland for these little derelicts, whose heads and pinafores and faces were so clean.  She pursed her lips very tight and said: 

“Hold out your hands, all of you.”

Three small hands were held out, and three small pairs of gray-blue eyes looked up at her.  From the recesses of her pocket she drew forth her purse, took from it three shillings, and placed one in the very centre of each palm.  The three small hands closed; two small grave bodies dipped in little courtesies; the third remained stock-still, but a grin spread gradually on its face from ear to ear.