Mamma told Nunky afterwards that she did not know what to say to her queer little boy. He and Posy both had such strange ideas about God, that she wished Nunky would talk with them some time and try to make them understand who He is and why we should pray to Him.
Nunky said, perhaps they were too young; but he would do the best he could. He was like a father to them when their own father was gone. He was quite a young man, and an artist. And here I will stop a moment, and tell you more about him.
He had a room at the very top of the house, called a studio; and you climbed some crooked stairs to reach it. He spent all his mornings in this room, with the door locked but once or twice the twins had peeped in and seen him sitting before a great easel painting pictures. He wore a gray dressing gown, and velvet cap with a tassel; and the sun poured straight down on his head through a hole in the roof.
“Ho yo! that’s jolly!” shouted Pollio.
Instantly the door was shut in his face. So unkind of Nunky! The twins wouldn’t have meddled with his paints, of course: hadn’t they told him they wouldn’t meddle?
“If we once got in, he’d want us to stay: he finks everyfing of us,” said Pollio to Posy.
“Let’s get in,” said she.
So one day they crept up stairs and knocked. Posy had her doll, and Pollio his drum; for they meant to make it very pleasant for Nunky.
Knock! knock!