"Ow, what a wicked ol' woman I bin an' bin," suddenly burst forth again
the repentant knitter. "I bin an' stole 'arf a pound o' sugar off of the
Eelite 'Atshop where I does a bit o' cleanin'. Ef I get out o' this
alive, I swear I'll repay it an 'undredfold--that is ef I can get that
much awf me sugar card...."

Sarah Brown was becoming sleepy. A blankness was invading her mind, and
the talk in the crypt seemed to lose its meaning, and to consist chiefly
of S's. She pondered idly on the family of children with their elders,
all of whom were now studying each other with a certain look of
disillusionment. It was a group whose relationships were difficult to
make out, the ages of many of the children being unnaturally
approximate. There seemed to be at least seven children under three
years old, and yet they all bore a strong and regrettable family
likeness. Several of the babies would hardly have been given credit for
having reached walking age, yet none had been carried in. The woman who
seemed to imagine herself the mother of this rabble was distributing
what looked like hurried final words of advice. The father with a
pensive eye was obviously trying to remember their names, and at
intervals whispering to a man apparently twenty years his senior, whom
he addressed as Sonny. It was all very confusing.

A long dim stretch of time seemed to have passed when suddenly the note
of a bugle sprang out across space. Somehow the air at once felt cooler
and more wholesome, the sound of the All-clear had something akin to the
sight of the sun after a thunderstorm, lighting up a crouching whipped
world.

"The Trump at last," said Lady Arabel's garrulous neighbour, rising with