Even then we did not associate that lack with poverty. Rather with the riches of our mother's personal accomplishments, and her devotion for her children. And indeed we may have been partly right. I think if she had been a millionaire she would not willingly have shared with a strange woman those hours she spent with us. We read a great deal aloud. My mother and I took turns. Bettina used to sit over the embroidery she was so good at, and I so hopeless. Or she would sit under the wild broom in Caesar's Camp watching the birds; or lie curled up on the sofa stroking Abdul, the blue Persian. Indoors or out, I don't think Bettina often listened to the reading. Perhaps that was because we read a good deal of history. Poetry was "for pleasure," our mother said. But it had to be translated into singing to be any pleasure to Bettina. I loved it all. Betty was two years younger than I, but nobody would believe I was not the elder by five years, or even six. I was proud of this, seeing in the circumstance my sole but sufficient advantage over a sister excelling in all things else. I am not to be understood as having been envious of Bettina. For I recognised her accomplishments as among our best family assets--reflecting glory on us all; ranking in honour after the respect shown to our mother, and the V. C. our father won in the Soudan. But my thoughtfulness and gravity as a child, my being cast in a larger, soberer mould, lent validity to my assumption of the right to take care of Bettina. Even to harry her now and then, when her feet outstrayed the paths appointed. Bettina was not only younger, she was delicate; she had to be protected against colds, against fatigue. There is, in almost every house, one main concern. When I look back, I see that in ours the main concern was Bettina. If she had been less sweet-natured, she would have been made intolerable. But the great need of being loved kept Bettina lovable. I cannot remember that we ever spent half a day away from each other, or away from our mother, until--but that is to come later. I feel still the panic that fell on us after the excitement of seeing the good-natured Mrs. Reuter drive up in her motor-car--the first we had encountered at close quarters--a jarring, uncanny, evil-smelling apparition in our peaceful court. Mrs. Reuter leaned out and unfolded her dreadful errand--to invite us children to come and stay at her house in Brighton from Friday to Monday! We stood there, blank, speechless. Our mother, with a presence of mind for which we blessed her, said she could not spare us; she was not well; I was a famous little nurse. Relief and pride rushed together. I could have kissed my mother's feet. My own could hardly keep from dancing. "Let me take the little one, then," said this brutal visitor. The little one burst into large, heart-rending sobs.