That means she's dead. His hand was
all red, too."
"Was it paint?"
"No, of course it wasn't paint. It was blood. And then he came down
here and went to sleep."
"Poor father, so tired."
"He's not poor father, he's not father at all; he's a murderer, and
it is very wicked of you to call him father," said the boy.
"Father," muttered the girl rebelliously.
"You know the sixth commandment says `Thou shalt do no murder,' and
he has done murder; so he'll go to hell. And you'll go to hell too if
you call him father. It's all in the Bible."
The boy ended vaguely, but the little girl was quite overcome by the
thought of her badness.
"Oh, I am wicked!" she cried. "And I do so want to go to heaven."
She had a stout and materialistic belief in it as a place of sheeted
angels and harps, where it was easy to be good.
"You must do as I tell you, then," he said. "Because I know. I've
learnt all about it at school."
"And you never told me," said she reproachfully.
"Ah, there's lots of things I know," he replied, nodding his head.
"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.
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