for the children of dead sailors. And we saw her. I
went in with Alice. And when we had explained to her that we had only
a shilling and we wanted it for something else, Alice suddenly said,
'Would you like some wine?'

And the lady said, 'Thank you very much,' but she looked surprised.

She was not a young lady, and she had a mantle with beads, and the beads
had come off in places--leaving a browny braid showing, and she had
printed papers about the dead sailors in a sealskin bag, and the
seal had come off in places, leaving the skin bare. We gave her a
tablespoonful of the wine in a proper wine-glass out of the sideboard,
because she was a lady. And when she had tasted it she got up in a very
great hurry, and shook out her dress and snapped her bag shut, and said,
'You naughty, wicked children! What do you mean by playing a trick like
this? You ought to be ashamed of yourselves! I shall write to your Mamma
about it. You dreadful little girl!--you might have poisoned me. But
your Mamma...'

Then Alice said, 'I'm very sorry; the butcher liked it, only he said it
was sweet. And please don't write to Mother. It makes Father so unhappy
when letters come for her!'--and Alice was very near crying.

'What do you mean, you silly child?' said the lady, looking quite
bright and interested. 'Why doesn't your Father like your Mother to have
letters--eh?'

And Alice said, 'OH, you...!' and began to cry, and bolted out of the
room.

Then I said, 'Our Mother is dead, and will you please go away now?'

The lady looked at me a minute, and then she looked quite different, and
she said, 'I'm very sorry. I didn't know. Never mind about the wine. I
daresay your little sister meant it kindly.' And she looked round the
room just like the butcher had done. Then she said again, 'I didn't
know--I'm very sorry...'

So I said, 'Don't mention it,' and shook hands with her, and let her
out. Of course we couldn't have asked her to buy the wine after what
she'd said. But I think she was not a bad sort of person. I do like
a person to say they're sorry when they ought to be--especially a
grown-up. They do it so seldom. I suppose that's why we think so much of
it.

But Alice and I didn't feel jolly for ever so long afterwards. And when
I went back into the dining-room I saw how different it was from when
Mother was here, and we are different, and Father is different, and
nothing is like it was. I am glad I am not made to think about it ever