“That’s ’im!” said Mrs. Stubbs, and she pointed dramatically to the life-size head and shoulders of a burly man with a dead white rose in the buttonhole of his coat that made you think of a curl of cold mutting fat. Just below, in silver letters on a red cardboard ground, were the words, “Be not afraid, it is I.” “It’s ever such a fine face,” said Alice faintly. The pale-blue bow on the top of Mrs. Stubbs’s fair frizzy hair quivered. She arched her plump neck. What a neck she had! It was bright pink where it began and then it changed to warm apricot, and that faded to the colour of a brown egg and then to a deep creamy. “All the same, my dear,” she said surprisingly, “freedom’s best!” Her soft, fat chuckle sounded like a purr. “Freedom’s best,” said Mrs. Stubbs again. Freedom! Alice gave a loud, silly little titter. She felt awkward. Her mind flew back to her own kitching. Ever so queer! She wanted to be back in it again. IX A strange company assembled in the Burnells’ washhouse after tea. Round the table there sat a bull, a rooster, a donkey that kept forgetting it was a donkey, a sheep and a bee. The washhouse was the perfect place for such a meeting because they could make as much noise as they liked, and nobody ever interrupted. It was a small tin shed standing apart from the bungalow. Against the wall there was a deep trough and in the corner a copper with a basket of clothes-pegs on top of it. The little window, spun over with cobwebs, had a piece of candle and a mouse-trap on the dusty sill. There were clotheslines criss-crossed overhead and, hanging from a peg on the wall, a very big, a huge, rusty horseshoe. The table was in the middle with a form at either side. “You can’t be a bee, Kezia. A bee’s not an animal. It’s a ninseck.” “Oh, but I do want to be a bee frightfully,” wailed Kezia.... A tiny bee, all yellow-furry, with striped legs. She drew her legs up under her and leaned over the table. She felt she was a bee. “A ninseck must be an animal,” she said stoutly. “It makes a noise. It’s not like a fish.” “I’m a bull, I’m a bull!” cried Pip. And he gave such a tremendous bellow—how did he make that noise?—that Lottie looked quite alarmed. “I’ll be a sheep,” said little Rags. “A whole lot of sheep went past this morning.” “How do you know?” “Dad heard them. Baa!” He sounded like the little lamb that trots behind and seems to wait to be carried. “Cock-a-doodle-do!” shrilled Isabel. With her red cheeks and bright eyes she looked like a rooster. “What’ll I be?” Lottie asked everybody, and she sat there smiling, waiting for them to decide for her. It had to be an easy one. “Be a donkey, Lottie.” It was Kezia’s suggestion. “Hee-haw! You can’t forget that.” “Hee-haw!” said Lottie solemnly. “When do I have to say it?”