s she gets inter. But she tells other
sorts. She just sits up on the fence what goes roun' the green, an'
mikes up things, an' a lot of the children ain't got no more sense
than to sit roun' an' listen to 'er. That just mikes 'er worse. She
sits theer, a-tellin' stories, an' sweerin' they're all true. You
never 'eard such stories."

"What are they all about?"

"Mostly about gran' things an' wunnerful things--kings, an' carridges,
an' angels, an' firewux, an' dreams what she says she's 'ad. An'
she'll sweer they're true. My word, it is wicked of 'er! She's allus
pretennin' to be things what she ain't, too. One Sat'dy arf'noon she
said she was a steam-injun. An' she got 'old of a little boy, BOB
COLLINGS, and said 'e was the tender. An' BOB COLLINGS 'ad to foller
close be'ind 'er all that arf'noon, else she'd a' nigh killed 'im. 'E
got rather tired, because she kept runnin' about, bein' a express an'
'avin' cerlishuns. Lawst of all she wived 'er awms about, and mide a
kind o' whooshin' noise. 'Now,' she said, 'my biler's bust, an' I'm
done for!' So she lay flat on the wet groun', an' the tender went 'ome
to 'is tea."

"What's she like to look at?"

JULIA SANBY confessed, with apparent reluctance, that GAZEY was very
pretty. "She's prettier nor I am, nor any of the other childrun roun'
'ere. She's got golding 'air, an' blue eyes. But I 'ite 'er, 'cos
she's so bad, an' 'cos she mikes the other children bad. I don't never
listen to none of 'er mike-ups now."

"Would she let me make a sketch of her?"

"Dunno. You wouldn't like 'er. She's low in the wye she talks. The new
curick don't like 'er. Nobody don't like 'er."

Now, just in this sentence, I fancied that the sanctimoniousness of
JULIA SANBY had become mixed with some real feeling. I also reflected
on the fact that, although most children are egoists, JULIA SANBY
seemed to take more pleasure in talking about GAZEY than in discussing
herself. I had distinct suspicions.

"Could you remember any of GAZEY's stories?"

"Might, p'raps."

"Go on, then. Tell me one."

She began a story, which was obviously an improvisation, with little
incidents taken from other stories added to it. It was full of the
wildest imaginings. She told it without the least nervousness or
embarrassment. Her assumption of demureness and sanctity vanished
utterly. She became vivid and dramatic. "An' I'd tike my gorspil oath
it's all true," she added, at the conclusion, as if from force of