She went down two flights of stairs, holding the wet handkerchief crumpled in her hand, and wondering what she had better do. Then she saw a door open, and heard a babel of small voices coming from behind it, and--surprising sight, a glow of firelight. She pushed the door open a very little farther, and peeped in. About twelve or fourteen very small girls, their ages ranging from six or seven to nine, were sitting in a huge half-circle round a bright fire. They were all talking hard, regardless of a pleasant-looking maid who was laying tea--a very nice tea, with plenty of bread and jam, and a plate of round, shiny-topped buns. They all stopped chattering though, when they caught sight of Joey, and stared at her solemnly in absolute silence. Still, she couldn't be uncomfortable with people of that age, even if they hadn't reminded her so much of Kirsty and Bingo. "Do you mind if I come in and dry something by your fire?" she asked. The children received the request most graciously, scrambling aside to make room for her in the middle of the circle, and helping her to hang the handkerchief over the high nursery fender. "Is it your hankserchiff?" asked a small, solemn voice, while she was spreading it out; and she turned round to meet the grave, dark eyes of the very tiniest child she had ever seen at school. She was about half Bingo's size, but she spoke quite distinctly, except for the mispronunciation of the word handkerchief. Her black hair was cut square over her forehead and bobbed; her small, round face had very little colour, and except for the amount of expression in it and the fact that she was talking, Joey could almost have taken her for a French doll. "No, it's not mine; it's one I borrowed, so I washed it," she explained, and then she pulled the tiny child upon her lap, as she sat on the floor. "What's your name, I wonder?" "Bertillia," breathed the mite, pronouncing all the syllables quite distinctly, and looking solemnly up at Joey as she spoke. "But we call her Tiddles," said a jolly-looking, round-faced person on Joey's right. "At least the big ones did first, and we caught it off them. And she's like a Tiddles, isn't she--just a sort of little kitten thing you can pick up." "You squeeze me when you pick me up, Ros-ie," Tiddles stated. "How old is she?" Joey asked, cuddling Tiddles close, as she cuddled Bingo, when he allowed it--which wasn't often. "Oh, she's six--but isn't she small--people think she's only two or three," Rosie answered. "She's Belgian, you know, and Miss Conyngham has taken her 'cause she's got nobody. Her mother got killed, and the one who brought her to England died of tiredness, poor thing--she had to walk and walk and carry Tiddles. She found her, you know; and look what those pigly Germans had done to her. Show your arm, Tiddles, darling."