'What is it, then?' said Nettie. 'It's such a pity you don't like it, when Granny's planned it so to please us. We should seem pleased, Denis, for you know Granny is rather sad. Last Christmas she was too sad to have anybody, for poor old uncle had died, you know. And it's _so_ good of her to have us all this Christmas. Mother says Granny's only pleasure is to make other people happy.' 'I do love Granny,' said Denis. 'Well then, don't you think you should try to be pleased with what she's planned for us--with your nice little room?' 'I _are_ pleased with my room,' replied Denis. 'I like it werry much.' Nettie stared at him as if she thought he was losing his senses. 'Then what _do_ you mean?' she asked. Denis looked round. They were still in the picture gallery. He pulled Nettie on, and when they were in the passage on to which at this end the gallery opened, he shut the door and drew his sister into a corner. 'Nettie,' he said, 'you won't never tell, will you?' 'No,' said Nettie, rather rashly. 'I wouldn't tell anybody but you, Nettie. Linda can't hear, can she?' 'Oh no, she's run on to the nursery.' 'Nettie,' he continued, 'it's not my room. It's the picshurs,' here he shook his head solemnly. 'It's having to pass the picshurs. It's dreadful. But, O Nettie, don't tell. It began last year when we was here. They try to catch me, Nettie. I'm almost sure they do. They come down off the wall and run after me--at least I _fink_ they do.' 'But they _can't_,' said Nettie, very much impressed, but still full of common sense; 'they _can't_, Denis. Pictures is pictures--they can't walk or run. Just think, they're not alive--they're not even like dolls. They're only thin bits of paper or wood--or--or--whatever it is pictures are painted on.' But Denis still shook his head. 'I know that,' he said. 'I've thought of that, but it's no good. When I'm not there I think that way, but as soon as I'm there it begins. Their eyes all look at me, and I'm sure they begin to get down to run after me as soon as I've passed. It's worst at night, like now, when the lamps is lighted. It isn't so bad in the day. But, O Nettie, it must be worstest in the moonlight,' and he gave a little shiver; 'don't you 'amember what Linda said about it--all the colours on the faces, you know?' 'But anyway,' said practical Nettie, 'you don't need to see them in the moonlight. You never need to go along there after the lamps are put out at night.' 'No,' said Denis, but not as if he found much consolation in the thought. 'And if you'd let me tell mother,' continued Nettie, 'I'm sure she'd change it some way. You might sleep with Alex, and Lam have your room.' '_That_ wouldn't do any good,' objected Denis. 'It's not the room I mind.' 'Oh no, of course. I forgot. But Den, I daresay it could be settled for you to sleep in the old nursery after all.'