secret and shadowy as it had been before—a tank full of darkness in which nothing stirred.

CHAPTER III

EVER since I had been built had any visit quite as unceremonious as this occurred. Who was the strange lady? What was she doing wandering the streets at this hour unescorted? She was beautiful and richly gowned; her face was young, but very sad. I was anxious to learn more, so I listened intently.

At first on entering, they halted just across the threshold, huddled together, the little lady with an arm flung about each of the children. She seemed to think that someone might be hidden in the darkness watching—someone to whom I belonged—for presently she addressed that supposed someone tremblingly: "We hope you don't mind, but the car forgot to come for us. Grandfather had been giving us a party. When we heard the warning, we tried to run home before the raid started; but we got lost. The Tube Stations were all so crowded that... And we found your door open, so we hope you don't mind us entering."

She paused nervously, waiting for someone to answer. A board creaked; apart from that the silence was unbroken.

Speaking to herself more than to the children, "It's quite empty," she said at last.

"Shall I close the door, Mumsie?" the little boy questioned.

"No, Robbie darling," she whispered; "they might be angry, when they come back. I mean the people who live here."

"But it's dreadfully cold."

"Then let's go farther in and find somewhere to sit down till the raid is over." They stumbled their way in the darkness through the hall and up the narrow staircase, where only one can walk abreast. Robbie went first on this voyage of discovery; he felt that if anything were hiding from them, his body would form a protection. His mother didn't want to lose sight of the street by climbing higher, but he coaxed her on from stair to stair. As pioneer of the expedition, he reached the tiny landing with the single door, which gives entrance to the drawing-room which occupies the whole of the second storey. Turning the handle he peeped in warily. Then, "Cheer up, Mummy," he cried, "there's been a fire and there's a wee bit of it still burning."

The room was carpetless and bare of furniture, save for an old sofa with sagging springs that had been pulled up across the hearth. Perched on the bars of the grate sat a tin kettle, gasping feebly, with nearly all its water boiled away. Under the kettle a few coals glowed faintly and a weak flame jumped and sank, like a ghost trying to make up its mind to vanish. Through the tall French windows that opened on to the verandah one could see the sky lit up with the tumultuous display of monstrous fireworks. From high overhead, above the clatter of destruction and the banging of guns, came the long-drawn, contented humming of the planes.

"They're right over us," the little boy whispered.

As if afraid that any movement on their part would draw the enemy's attention, they stood silent, clinging together, and listened. Oblongs of light, falling through the windows, danced and shifted. Once the beam of a searchlight groping through the shadows, gazed straight in and dwelt on them astounded, as if to say, "Well, I never! Who'd have thought to find you here?"

They tiptoed over to the couch and sat down, making as little noise as possible, for they still weren't sure that they were welcome. They didn't speak or move for some time; with the excitement and running and losing their way they were very tired. Presently the little boy got up, and went and stood by the window looking out, with his legs astraddle and his hands behind his back like a man. He wore a sailor-suit and had bare, sturdy knees. He was very small to try to be so manly.

"I'm not frightened, Mummy," he said.

"If father were here, he wouldn't be frightened."

She shifted her position so that she could glance proudly back at him. "Father was never frightened."

For the first time the little girl spoke. "If father were here, they wouldn't dare to come to London. I expect they knew..."

"Yes, Joan," her mother interrupted quickly, "I expect they knew."

"And when I'm a man they won't dare to come to London, either," said Robbie. "How many of them did father...?"

But at that moment, before he could finish his question, his mother pressed her finger against his lips warningly. Above the roar of what was going on in the clouds, she had heard another and more alarming sound; the front-door closed quietly, a match struck and then the slow deliberate tread of someone groping up the stairs.

CHAPTER IV

HE tread reached the landing and proceeded to mount higher. Then it hesitated. Another match was struck and it commenced to descend. On arriving at the landing again, it halted uncertain. The handle of the door was tried. The door swung open and a man peered across the threshold. No one spoke. The little lady on the couch drew Joan closer to her side and held her breath, hoping that the man might not observe them and that, when he had gone, they might escape. But the man did not go, he stood there on the alert, listening and searching the darkness.

It was Robbie who spoke first. He had thrust his hands deep into his knickerbockers' pockets to gain courage. "What do you want? We think you might speak," he said.

The man laughed pleasantly. "I'm sorry if I've frightened you. I didn't know that anyone was here. I thought this was an empty house. Perhaps you weren't aware of it, but you'd left your front-door open." Then, because no one replied, he added, "It's all right now; it's closed."

He wasn't looking at Robbie any longer. He was trying to probe the shadows by the fireplace, where he had caught the rustle of a woman's dress. He had caught something else—the faint sweet fragrance of Jacqueminot.

"I've alarmed you," he said. "I'm a stranger in London and I couldn't find any way out of your square. I strayed into your house for shelter. I'm sorry I intruded. Good-night to you all, however many there are of you."

He was actually going. It was impossible to see what he looked like, but he was evidently well-mannered and a gentleman. Suddenly to the lady in the lonely house, from being a creature of dread, he became a heaven-sent protector. Who could tell how many less desirable visitors might not call before the raid was ended? The care-taker might return. Were that to happen, it would be much more comfortable to have this male trespasser present to help make the explanations. Just as he was withdrawing, the lady rose from the shabby couch and called him back.

"Oh,