"What must we do?" said the girl meekly. "Shall I go and ask mother?"
The boy was sick at her obstinacy.
"Mother's dead, I tell you; that means she can't hear anything. It's no use talking to her; but I know. You must stop here, and if father wakes you run out of the house and call `Police!' and I will go now and tell a policeman now."
"And what happens then?" she asked, with round eyes at her brother's wisdom.
"Oh, they come and take him away to prison. And then they put a rope round his neck and hang him like Haman, and he goes to hell."
"Wha-at! Do they kill him?"
"Because he's a murderer. They always do."
"Oh, don't let's tell them! Don't let's tell them!" she screamed.
"Shut up!" said the boy, "or he'll wake up. We must tell them, or we go to hell—both of us."
But his sister did not collapse at this awful threat, as he expected, though the tears were rolling down her face. "Don't let's tell them," she sobbed.