Mrs Penhaligon stared. "Well, I s'wow! Bank Holiday to-morra, and
I'd clean forgot it! . . . But, with the Lord's Sabbath standin' 'pon
its head, 'tis excusable. The children, now--out an' runnin' the
town in the Sunday clothes with never a thought o' breakfast; and how
I'm to get their boots an' faces clean in time for Chapel, let alone
washin'-up, I ask you!"

"Well, I'll go upstairs an' get a shave," said Nicky-Nan.
"_That_'ll feel like Sunday anyhow."

"Poor lonely creatur'!" thought Mrs Penhaligon, who always pitied
bachelors. On an impulse she said, "An' when you've done, Mr
Nanjivell, there'll be fried eggs an' bacon, if you're not above
acceptin' the compliment for once."


When Nicky-Nan came downstairs again, clean-shaven and wearing his
Sunday suit of threadbare sea-cloth, he found the Penhaligon children
seated at the board, already plying their spoons in bowls of
bread-and-milk. As a rule, like other healthy children, they ate
first and talked afterwards. But to-day, with War in the air, they
chattered, stirring the sop around and around. 'Beida's eyes were
bright and her cheeks flushed.

"War's a funny thing," she mused. "Where do _you_ feel it, Mother?"

"Don't clacky so much, that's a darlin', but go on with your
breakfast." But Mrs Penhaligon heaved a sigh that was answer enough.