"Come back--come back!" called the Duchessa, raising her hand,
and beckoning.

They came back.

"The pathetic little imps," she murmured while they were on the
way.

The boy was a sturdy, square-built fellow, of twelve, thirteen,
with a shock of brown hair, brown cheeks, and sunny brown eyes;
with a precocious air of doggedness, of responsibility. He
wore an old tail-coat, the tail-coat of a man, ragged,
discoloured, falling to his ankles.

The girl was ten or eleven, pale, pinched; hungry, weary, and
sorry looking. Her hair too had been brown, upon a time; but
now it was faded to something near the tint of ashes, and had
almost the effect of being grey. Her pale little forehead was
crossed by thin wrinkles, lines of pain, of worry, like an old
woman's.

The Duchessa, pushing her bicycle, and followed by Peter, moved
down the road, to meet them. Peter had never been so near to
her before--at moments her arm all but brushed his sleeve. I
think he blessed the children.

"Where are you going?" the Duchessa asked, softly, smiling into
the girl's sad little face.

The girl had shown no fear of Peter; but apparently she was