This room would never be taken from her, because she was the only one who was small enough to fit the bed. She would be safe there with her hill. III. The strange houses fascinated her. They had the simplicity and the precision of houses in a very old engraving. On the west side of the Green they made a long straight wall. Morfe High Row. An open space of cobblestones stretched in front of it. The market-place. Sharp morning light picked out the small black panes of the windows in the white criss-cross of their frames, and the long narrow signs of the King's Head and the Farmer's Arms, black on grey. The plaster joints of the walls and the dark net of earth between the cobbles showed thick and clear as in a very old engraving. The west side had the sky behind it and the east side had the hill. Grey-white cart roads slanted across the Green, cutting it into vivid triangular grass-plots. You went in and out of Morfe through the open corners of its Green. Her father's house stood at the south-west corner, by itself. A projecting wing at that end of the High Row screened it from the market-place. The strange houses excited her. Wonderful, unknown people lived in them. You would see them and know what they were like: the people in the tall house with the rusty stones, in the bright green ivy house with the white doors, in the small grey, humble houses, in the big, important house set at the top of the Green, with the three long rows of windows, the front garden and the iron gate. People you didn't know. You would be strange and exciting to them as they were strange and exciting to you. They might say interesting things. There might be somebody who cared about Plato and Spinoza. Things would happen that you didn't know. Anything might happen any minute. If you knew what was happening in the houses _now_--some of them had hard, frightening faces. Dreadful things might have happened in them. Her father's house had a good, simple face. You could trust it. Five windows in the rough grey wall, one on each side of the white door, three above. A garden at the side, an orchard at the back. In front a cobbled square marked off by a line of thin stones set in edgeways. A strange house, innocent of unhappy memories. Catty stood at the door, looking for her. She called to her to come in to breakfast. IV. Papa was moving restlessly about the house. His loose slippers shuffled on the stone flags of the passages. Catty stopped gathering up the breakfast cups to listen. Catty was not what she used to be. Her plump cheeks were sunk and flattened. Some day she would look like Jenny.