"It isn’t the accent of ladies and gentlemen, Sheila! You are a rude and foolish little girl!" Calm and unabashed, the Atom responded with fervour. "’Tis the way many of my best friends spake at home—always—wakin’ and sleepin’ they spake like that, and I’ll be spakin’ like it, too." With her black little head well up, and her absurd pig-tail at an acute angle, she waited for Miss Kezia’s response. But Denis interposed from the doorway with a judicious appeal to her sense of economy. "I say, Aunt Kezia, I’ve lit your candle, and it’s spluttering like a dumb man asking for a tip!" Miss Kezia turned and hurriedly left the room. Molly suddenly pushed her bowl away with an angry clatter. She flung her arms out over the table and hid her face in them. "Oh, I can’t—help it!" she cried out wildly. "Everything’s so—awful!" and she burst into tears. Nell caught her underlip between her teeth and rose. "Shan’t we go to bed, Denis?" she said wearily. "Yes, come along. K.K. may as well have the porridge. We’ve been neglecting you, old lady, haven’t we, then?" The Atom sat rigid, her shocked gaze bent stiffly on Molly’s prone head. "Oh," sobbed Molly, "I shall die—in a week—here—I—hate Aunt Kezia—I hate this house—I hate—everything! Oh, I want mother—and dad—" The Atom got down stiffly from her chair, her gaze never leaving Molly. Nell, in pity of the little white face, tried to put Kate Kearney into her arms, but she drew back. "I don’t want her," she said. They crept upstairs and bade each other good night. "I—I’m sure I’ll be dead when I wake up in the morning!" Molly quavered wretchedly. "I—can’t breathe—in this place—there isn’t room to move—I shall suffocate." Sheila Pat was to share Nell’s room. She followed her in in silence. They undressed quickly. The Atom said her prayers and got into bed. Nell knelt down, but no prayers would come. She knelt and cried into the counterpane. After a while an austere voice smote upon her ear. "Nell O’Brien, I’m thinkin’ you’re keepin’ God up very late!" Nell said a prayer—a somewhat incoherent one—and scrambled into bed. An hour later she sat up and turned her pillow. She looked across at the little white bed that glimmered over by the window; then she burrowed her head despairingly down into the dry side of her pillow. The sight of it, as she had lifted it to turn it over, had brought to her mind the stout old rector at home. She remembered how Sheila Pat had once earnestly declared he was so nice to lean against—"just like a pillow." She quoted him beneath her breath, a humorous dimple denting her wet cheek.