"Nothing only my fancy, miss," said Eliza. "I always was fanciful
from a child dreaming of the pearly gates and them little angels
with nothing on only their heads and wings so cheap to dress, I
always think, compared with children."

When she was got rid of, Mabel ate the bread and drank water
from the tooth-mug.

"I'm afraid it tastes of cherry tooth-paste rather," said Kathleen
apologetically.

"It doesn't matter," a voice replied from the tilted mug; "it's more
interesting than water. I should think red wine in ballads was
rather like this."

"We've got leave for the day again," said Kathleen, when the last
bit of bread had vanished, "and Gerald feels like I do about lies, So
we're going to tell your aunt where you really are."

"She won't believe you."

"That doesn't matter, if we speak the truth," said Kathleen primly.

"I expect you'll be sorry for it," said Mabel; "but come on and, I
say, do be careful not to shut me in the door as you go out. You
nearly did just now."

In the blazing sunlight that flooded the High Street four shadows
to three children seemed dangerously noticeable. A butcher's boy