and Bobbie got her arms round Mother's waist and snuggled close to her.

"Well, it's a story long enough to make a whole book of. He's a writer; he's written beautiful books. But you know in Russia you mustn't say anything about the rich people doing wrong, or about the things that ought to be done to make poor people better and happier. If you do, they send you to prison."

"But they can't," said Peter; "people only go to prison when they've done wrong."

"Or when the Judges think they've done wrong," said Mother. "Yes, that's so in England. But in Russia it's different. And he wrote a beautiful book about poor people and how to help them. I've read it. There's nothing in it but goodness and kindness. And they sent him to prison for it. He was three years in a horrible dungeon, with hardly any light, and all damp and dreadful. In prison all alone for three years."

Mother's voice trembled a little and stopped suddenly.

"But, Mother," said Peter, "that can't be true now. It sounds like something out of a history book—the Inquisition, or something."