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Bissett said very gravely. “The devil makes use of such wit as yourn. There’s some things as can’t be argyed about. You know they’re true on account of God speaks ’em straight to your heart.”
    At that moment I heard my mother’s tread along the passage. I smiled triumphantly at my nurse and as my mother came in Bissett said: “You’re a deal too kind to him, ma’am.
    If you ask me, he wants a father’s hand.”
    My mother started and then said somewhat haughtily: “That will be all, Bissett.”
    My nurse moved to the door holding the candle: “Good night, Master Johnnie.”
    “Good night, Bissett,” I replied.
    With a glance at my mother she added: “Be sure and mind you say your prayers now.”
    I nodded and she left the room.

    A WISE CHILD

    19

    When I was sure she was out of hearing I said : “May I hear a story, Mamma?”
    She read me a story every night and I loved the ritual of choosing as much as the story itself. My favourites were the ones that frightened me most — “The History of Jack the Giant-killer”, “The Children in the Wood”, “The Tale of Death and the Lady”, and
    “Chevy Chase”. Above all I loved The Arabian Nights as much for the strange words —
    Sooltans and Ufreets and Djinns — as for the fabulous world of the stories. There was one tale that had frightened me so much on the only occasion that my mother had read it that although I longed to hear it again, I had never dared to ask her for it.
    “No, Johnnie. You’ve been too naughty this evening.”
    “Oh please! I’m sorry about the letter-case.”
    “It wasn’t just that. Bissett’s right, I’m too indulgent with you. I’ll read you a story but to show you that I really am hurt, I ’ll choose it and it shall be that one about a man who spies upon his wife and has a horrible surprise as a punishment for his curiosity, for curiosity is always punished, you know.”
    I nodded, not daring to speak, for this was the very story that had frightened me so much.
    My mother took down the book from the shelf over my bed and began to read the tale of Syed Naomaun who married a new wife who was very beautiful. But after a time he was struck by the fact that she ate only a grain of rice a day. He saw that she went out of the house almost every evening, and so one night he followed her. She walked out of the town and seemed to be passing the graveyard when he lost sight of her in the shadows of the trees. “So he crept forward and as he came closer,” my mother read on, “he saw that she was seated upon the wall beside a female goul and … ”
    I could bear it no longer and, with a scream, I thrust my head under the bedclothes.
    “There, there, Johnnie,” said my mother, patting my head through the blankets. “It’s only a story. It didn’t really happen.”
    “Didn’t really happen?” I repeated as I emerged from beneath the blankets. “But it says so in the book!”
    “You’ll understand when you’re a little older.”
    “You always say that,” I protested. “It’s not fair.”
    She looked at me intently: “I’m sorry I was a little upset today, Johnnie, but I’ve had some rather bad news. That letter was to say that Uncle Martin is unwell.”
    “Is that all?” I asked.
    She looked down: “Yes, there’s nothing else to worry about. Now, you will go straight to sleep, won’t you?”
    I nodded. She quickly kissed me, picked up the candle and stole from the chamber squeezing the door shut behind her. I strained to follow her light step making its way along the uncarpeted passage and down the stairs until it was out of hearing.
    Since it was a still, almost windless night and nothing was passing in the road, the only sound was the gentle rustling of the trees. After some time, from the borders of slumber, my ears caught the faint jingling of bells in the far distance, and then the hollow, echoing rumble of huge iron-hooped wheels labouring over the uneven metal of the road. That, I knew