The room was carpetless and bare of furniture, save for an old sofa with sagging springs that had been pulled up across the hearth. Perched on the bars of the grate sat a tin kettle, gasping feebly, with nearly all its water boiled away. Under the kettle a few coals glowed faintly and a weak flame jumped and sank, like a ghost trying to make up its mind to vanish. Through the tall French windows that opened on to the verandah one could see the sky lit up with the tumultuous display of monstrous fireworks. From high overhead, above the clatter of destruction and the banging of guns, came the long-drawn, contented humming of the planes. “They're right over us,” the little boy whispered. As if afraid that any movement on their part would draw the enemy's attention, they stood silent, clinging together, and listened. Oblongs of light, falling through the windows, danced and shifted. Once the beam of a searchlight groping through the shadows, gazed straight in and dwelt on them astounded, as if to say, “Well, I never! Who'd have thought to find you here?” They tiptoed over to the couch and sat down, making as little noise as possible, for they still weren't sure that they were welcome. They didn't speak or move for some time; with the excitement and running and losing their way they were very tired. Presently the little boy got up, and went and stood by the window looking out, with his legs astraddle and his hands behind his back like a man. He wore a sailor-suit and had bare, sturdy knees. He was very small to try to be so manly. [Illustration: 0041] “I'm not frightened, Mummy,” he said. “If father were here, he wouldn't be frightened.” She shifted her position so that she could glance proudly back at him. “Father was never frightened.” For the first time the little girl spoke. “If father were here, they wouldn't dare to come to London. I expect they knew...” “Yes, Joan,” her mother interrupted quickly, “I expect they knew.” “And when I'm a man they won't dare to come to London, either,” said Robbie. “How many of them did father...?” But at that moment, before he could finish his question, his mother pressed her finger against his lips warningly. Above the roar of what was going on in the clouds, she had heard another and more alarming sound; the front-door closed quietly, a match struck and then the slow deliberate tread of someone groping up the stairs. CHAPTER IV [Illustration: 9047]