As she told them off in turn, she made sev-
eral mistakes about ages, and they roared
with laughter. When she came to my light-
footed friend of the windmill, she said, "This
is Leo, and he's old enough to be better than
he is."

He ran up to her and butted her playfully
with his curly head, like a little ram, but his
voice was quite desperate. "You've forgot!
You always forget mine. It's mean! Please
tell him, mother!" He clenched his fists
in vexation and looked up at her impetu-
ously.

She wound her forefinger in his yellow fleece
and pulled it, watching him. "Well, how old
are you?"

"I'm twelve," he panted, looking not at
me but at her; "I'm twelve years old, and I
was born on Easter day!"

She nodded to me. "It's true. He was an
Easter baby."

The children all looked at me, as if they
expected me to exhibit astonishment or de-
light at this information. Clearly, they were
proud of each other, and of being so many.
When they had all been introduced, Anna,
the eldest daughter, who had met me at the

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