The child hung his head.
“Well, run away and do it again.”
“Nice little boy,” whispered Helen. “I say, what’s your name? Mine’s Helen.”
“Tom.”
That was Helen all over. The Wilcoxes, too, would ask a child its name, but they never told their names in return.
“Tom, this one here is Margaret. And at home we’ve another called Tibby.”
“Mine are lop-eared,” replied Tom, supposing Tibby to be a rabbit.
“You’re a very good and rather a clever little boy. Mind you come again.—Isn’t he charming?”
“Undoubtedly,” said Margaret. “He is probably the son of Madge, and Madge is dreadful. But this place has wonderful powers.”
“What do you mean?”