"Yes, old," he said, "and the reason I mentioned my unfortunate childhood was to point a moral in content. When I was young I was made to go to chapel twice on Sundays, three times counting Sunday-school, and here I find you all wandering about the moor." "I'd rather have had the chapel," Miriam said. "One could at least look at people's hats." "The hats in our particular Bethel were chiefly bonnets. Bonnets with things in them that nodded, and generally black." He stared across the moor. "I don't know that the memory of them is a thing to cherish." Helen tried to do justice to the absent. "We were never told not to go. We could do what we liked." "Ah, but we weren't encouraged," Miriam chuckled. "You have to be encouraged, don't you, Zebedee, before you go into places like that?" "My father had other methods," he said grimly. The silence tightened on his memories, and no one spoke until Miriam said, almost gently, "Please tell us some more." "The pews were a bright yellow, and looked sticky. The roof was painted blue, with stars. There was a man in a black gown with special knowledge on the subject of sin." "That," Miriam said pensively, "must have been amusing." "No. Only dreary and somehow rather unclean. I liked to go to the surgery afterwards and smell the antiseptics." "I wish the horrible black-gowned man could know that," Helen said fiercely. He looked down, smiling tolerantly. "But it doesn't matter now." "It does. It will always matter. You were little--" She broke off and huddled herself closer in her shawl, as though she held a small thing in its folds. He found nothing to say; he was swept by gratitude for this tenderness. It was, he knew, what she would have given to anything needing comfort, but it was no less wonderful for that and he was warmed by it and, at the same time, disturbed. She seemed to have her hands near his heart, and they were pressing closer. "Go on," said Miriam, unconscious of the emotions that lived near her. "I like to hear about other people's miseries. Were you rather a funny little boy?" "I expect so." "Pale and plain, I should think," she said consideringly, "with too big a nose. Oh, it's all right now, rather nice, but little boys so often have noses out of proportion. I shall have girls. Did you wear black clothes on Sunday?" "I'm afraid so." "Poor little ugly thing! Helen, are you listening? Black clothes! And your hair oiled?" "No, not so bad as that. My mother was a very particular lady." "Can you tell us about her?" Helen asked. "I don't know that I can." "You oughtn't to have suggested it," Miriam said in a reproof which was ready to turn to mockery at a hint from Zebedee. "He won't tell us if he doesn't want to. You wouldn't be hurt by anything we said, would you?"