urriedly and putting them on with
considerable pride. "Last night was the first time I wore them. Only
Daddy never looked, with those other men there."

A lump came into Marcella's throat as he neatly folded his clothes and
laid them in a heap on the floor.

"There's a pocket, look!" he said, afraid that she would miss any of the
proud points of his pyjamas. "Gran put a silver sixpence in it, for
luck, and a little letter. But I can't read yet."

He fumbled in the pocket which was just big enough for his hand. There
was the sixpence and a little handkerchief with rabbits sitting perkily
at each corner. The letter was a small text-card with a bright rosebud
painted on it.

"Read it," he said, watching her anxiously. "Granny read it to me when
she put it there."

"Call upon me in the time of trouble," she read. He nodded.

"That's right. Now put it back. Gran said I must never lose it, and some
day if I remembered it, it might come in handy."

She tucked it safely away and he started to climb into bed.

"Jimmy, I always get washed before bed, don't you?" she suggested.

"Oh yes. I promised Gran. But it's hard to remember everything," he said
resignedly. But his washing was not very comprehensive; Marcella
promised herself a busy half-hour with him in the bathroom next morning.

He was asleep in two minutes, but Marcella did not attempt to undress
for a long time. She dragged the cabin trunk out from under the bunk
very quietly, and, sitting down on it, frowned. A queer thing had
happened to her. Over all her early life her father had towered like a
Colossus. The rest of the world had been filled with friends--friendly
visions, friendly people, friendly ghosts. She had not met anyone unkind
before. Conditions had never been anything but unkind; she expected cold
and hunger, hardness and discomfort. But that people could be unkind to
each other she had never realized. Then had come Louis's tale, which had
horrified her, Diddy's tale which had grieved her at first and then
puzzled her as she saw how easily the image of the sick girl was
replaced by that of a man who gave her meringues. Ole Fred had
frightened her: Mr. Peters had at first seemed ridiculous and then
cruel. Most of the people on the ship seemed cruel, when she came to
reflect about it. Something cruel had happened that very morning. She
had noticed, when they came aboard at Tilbury, a very romantic figure
standing on deck; he fitted in much better wi