IV
Half an hour later, when Mary and Helen returned from their walk, they were addressed by Jeremy.
“She was crying because we'd been so naughty, and she had pains in her head, and her brother was dead. Her brother was very strong, and he used to row in a boat forty years ago. She told me all about it, just as though I'd been Aunt Amy or Mother. And she says that if we go on being naughty she'll go away, and no one else will have her, because they'll hear about our having been naughty. And I told her about the workhouse and the porridge and the yellow soap that the Jampot told us of, and it would be awful if she went there because of us, wouldn't it?”
“Awful,” said Mary.
But Helen said: “She wouldn't go there. She'd take a little house, like Miss Dobell, and have tea-parties on Thursdays—somewhere near the Cathedral.”
“No, she wouldn't!” said Jeremy excitedly. “How could she take a little house if she hadn't any money? She told me she hadn't, and no friends, nor nobody, and she cried like anything—” He paused for breath, then concluded: “So we've got to be good now, and learn sums, and not make her jump. Really and truly, we must.”
“I always thought you were very silly to make so much noise,” said Helen in a superior fashion. “You and Mary—babies!”
“We're not babies,” shouted Jeremy.
“Yes, you are.”