dark alleys and in hot areas,
of caged birds. There are thousands of caged creatures, other than
birds, in London in August, men, women, and children. Hats off, then,
to the little feathered Christians who sing for their fellow-prisoners
a paean of praise. It is perhaps easier to sing to the patch of blue sky
when you do not know that it will be hidden behind clouds tomorrow.

"They've come," cried Nannie.

"O Aunt Woggles!" said Hugh, "I've brought you a lovely caterpillar
wrapped up in grass."

"And I've brought you one of my very own bantam eggs," said Betty. "I've
kept it ever so long for you."

Then it will be bad, said Hugh.

"Oh, not so long as to be bad," said Betty. "You will eat it, won't you,
Aunt Woggles?"

Nannie was radiantly happy at tea that day, but I think her happiness
was supreme when she fetched me later to look at the children asleep.
We stole into Betty's room together, and Nannie shaded the candle as
she held it, for me to look at what is assuredly the loveliest thing on
God's earth--a sleeping child.

Nannie, in an eloquent silence, pointed to the chair on which lay
Betty's clean clothes, folded ready for the morning, and to her hairy
horse which she had brought for company. Her blue slippers were beside
the bed. Then we went into Hugh's room. He, too, lay peaceful and
beautiful, his clothes folded ready for the morning, and his pistol
beside him in case he was "attacked." His slippers were red, and Nannie,
at the sight of them, cried quietly. To some happy mothers a child's
slippers mean nothing more than size two or three, and serve only to
remind her how quickly children grow out of things!

But to Nannie they brought back memories of years of happiness, through
which little feet, in just the same sort of slippers, had pattered,
stumbling here, falling there, picked up, and guided by her. But she
thought most of the little feet in just that sort of slippers, that had
stopped still forever early on their life's journey. It is the voices
that are hushed that call most distinctly, the footsteps that stop that
are most carefully traced. It is the children who have gone that stand
and beckon!

Chapter XI

Pauline's wedding-day dawned gloriously bright and beautiful. The whole
village was up and doing, very early, putting the finishing touches to
the decorations.

The widower shoemaker and his children, and the woman who washed
them--the children, I mean--on Saturdays, had al