Oh, yes, they had. Their mother had told them that when the Prince Consort died every lady in the land had gone into mourning, and, no matter how often they were told this, they always asked, “And did you go into mourning, too, Mother?” and were told that she had been only a girl at the time, but she had had a black sash and ribbons. And they knew he had been the Queen’s husband, though, oddly enough, not the King, and that he had been so good that nobody had liked him in his lifetime, excepting the Queen, who “fairly doted.” They had heard all this by degrees because a neighbour called “Old Queenie” had portraits of him and the Queen on the lid of her snuffbox.

But Mrs. Herring was back in the closet and, since she could not take all her things away with her, was determined to be generous. “Now, here’s a nice little beaded footstool. Come out of Tusmore House that time the fire was, so you may be sure it’s good. You have it, my dear. I’d like you to have it.” Their mother eyed the little round stool with the claw legs and beaded cover. She would really have liked that, but had made up her mind to accept nothing. Perhaps she reflected, too, that it would be hers in any case, as what Mrs. Herring could not take she would have to leave, for she said again: “It’s very kind of you, I’m sure, but I don’t know that I’ve any use for it.”

“Use! Use!” echoed Mrs. Herring. “Keep a thing seven years and you’ll always find a use for it! Besides,” she added, rather sharply, “it’s just the thing to have under your feet when you’re suckling, and you can’t pretend you’ll not be doing that again, and a good many times, too, at your age.”

Fortunately, at that moment, Mr. Herring was heard calling upstairs that the cart was so chock-a-block that he couldn’t get so much as another needle in edgeways, and, with a deep sigh his wife said she supposed she’d have to leave the rest. “Perhaps you could sell some of the best things and send the money on with the rent,” she suggested hopefully, but the children’s mother thought a bonfire in the garden would be the best way of disposing of them. However, after she had gone, a number of things were picked out and cleaned and kept, including the beaded footstool, a brass ladle, and a little travelling clock, which, when repaired, delighted the children by playing a little tune after striking the hours. “Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, tink, tink, tink” it went, night and day, for another forty years! then, its works worn out at last, retired to a shelf in Laura’s attic.