The clock points to nearly nine, and still a little girl kneels on the dining-room window seat presses her nose to glass, watching the amazing scenes in the street. Those mysterious grown-ups "the people over the way" are laughing and talking in their garden with the "people next door," the front of their house is hung with fairy-lights, and a great Chinese lantern shines over their gate. Flags and lights decorate all the windows in sight, and up and down the street laughing and shouting and ringing their bells, cycle the big boys of the neighbourhood, lanterns hanging from their handle-bars. It is all a wonder to the solemn-eyed dark-haired little girl, and perhaps the greatest wonder of all is that bedtime should be so far past, and no one have fetched her upstairs. 

This is my earliest memory, a memory so historically dating that to own to it admits one as nearing forty, for clearly that miraculous evening must have been either Mafeking Night, or the Peace Proclamation, which, it is difficult to decide. And to be nearing forty was at one time not so long since considered a matter to be hidden with skill, but this topsy-turvy world in which those of our generation have lived our lives has compensated us for the loss of youth by giving the gifts of maturity and making life fuller and richer as it reaches middle-age.

There must have been at least one other little girl watching the lanterns on that night, though she has no place in the memory of it, for I was the second of four sisters, so spaced that at certain intervals at for a week or so only, we all fell into “three times table." -- 3, 6, 9 and 12, and then so me three years’ later, another three-times sequence. The eldest of us seemed very early to adopt the role of “elder sister", and with the coming of the fourth baby, we dropped into a natural arrangement of “big sister", "the little girls" and "baby". 

The third sister, dark-haired like myself, grew with exceptional speed, and for many years we ran a neck and neck race for height , a matter fraught with much heart-burning and tears on my part when tactless shop-assistants pointed out the inch or so advantage that the younger had gained. Even when she needed larger shoes than mine, it was a matter for regere, though the coming of the ‘teens replaced this by a pride in my small feet. 

This similarity in size resulted in our being dressed alike, and treated for all practical purposes, as the same age -- in the matter of bedtime, we went together, where the elder sister had an hour's advantage. It became a bit of a joke for us to pretend to be twins, and at one time we learnt a recitation which titled "the Twins" of which we recited alternate verses with much gusto. 

Our childhood was of the quietest and most uneventful -- a ‘typical pre-war nursery childhood, spent in one of the big, three-storied suburban houses of those times. To my childish memory it seems immense, and I have pictures of a vast “linen-cupboard, ike a room, with an eerie tank in one corner behind which one huddled, trembling, in the rae and exciting game of Hide and Seek All Over The House -- rare, perhaps, because of the occasion on which, coming too tempestuously down from the attics, I missed my footing and pitched not only down the flight but across a landing and down two steps into the bath-room, knocking out two front teeth in the process. 

The dining-room and drawing-room were our parents, and our life was most led in the garden and nursery, a pleasant room on the first floor, its bare windows looking over the garden, its walls covered with a miraculous paper of nursery-rhyme people. Here we lived a life of happy make-believe, playing mostly with "dolls-house dolls", those penny china ones with the stuffed bodies of which we had enormous quantities. Very early, they outgrew the little old dolls house which had been our mother's, and even the brand new one which was a joint Christmas present one year, and rooms had to be made for them on the bookshelves which flanked the fireplace. 

Each of us had her separate family, Mother and Father and a small crowd of children, while a couple of uniformed maids took charge of the two houses 2 er were lent to families as needed. As if these dolls were not enough, we soon added to them many families of paper ones, cut from fashion books, and in many ways these always seemed more real to me, with their natural, "living" faces. One, in particular, I always remember. She was pictured sitting down, and so I explained that she was crippled, and always after, had an especial tenderness for her, moving her carefully about to join in the games or watch the doings of the other dolls. 

At the- about the age of seven, my eldest sister left the nursery party to start school at a little kindergarten at the end of the road -- a quaint, old fashioned little school with--- Almost her first action, was to catch whooping cough, which she brought home to the rest of us, luckily excluding the then quite new baby. In the following autumn, I joined her at school, but after one term the two of us developed measles, and my mother gave up schools in disgust. 

My one term at school provides just a few sharp memories. The first day was a bitter experience, and remains very clear. Being not quite six, I was naturally placed in the youngest class to begin with, and we started a reading lesson. Slowly and laboriously, the babes at my side spelt out - a sentence in turn, after this method : "T-H-E , the; C-A-T, cat..." 

It came to my turn and, gloriously confident in the ability to read imparted by my mother, I set off at top speed with my sentence, only to be at once pulled up. Incredulously I realised that I was expected to spell out each word too. 

"But I can read," I protested, only to find the teacher firm. 

With crimson face, and bitten back tears, I spelt rebelliously through my sentence, and when at last we were released for home, fled to my mother in tears. "But I can read? "But I can read’ Tell them I can read!" was all she got out of me, but, heaven be thanked, she was a wise woman who saw how intensely real my humiliation was. What happened behind the scenes, I do not know, but I stayed home that afternoon, and the next day found myself promoted to the next class where reading was taken for granted. 

At this time, I found memorising so easy that I picked up poetry with no effort. To celebrate Christmas we were taught a long poem, beginning "'Twas the night before Christmas", which I learnt so easily that I had the thrill of being called out to recite it to the whole Junior School, some twenty babies, divided into three groups But this was not all. The Head Mistress visited our room, and told me I was chosen to recite my Christmas poem before the Upper School as well, and glowing with pride, I was escorted into the gloomy little room next to ours, where at about a dozen desks sat great girls of eight or nine, my own sister being among them. Here, perched by the Headmistresses desk, I proclaimed by verses, with no sign of nervousness, but a huge pride in my distinction. 

Over the door of our schoolroom, hung the motto "What man has done, man may do," and though I was not very sure in my young mind if it was not ‘rather an incitement to naughtiness, I certainly took its message to heart and had no doubts at all of my own capabilities. 

Then, at the height of my glory, measles stepped in and ended my schooling. My eldest sister was never very strong, and probably this second illness took a lot out of her. I, luckily, had it very slightly, and sat gaily up in bed, singing and talking and playing games. It is told with awe of this time that one day, my twin missing me so badly, escaped from the nurse, and ran in to find me, throwing her arms round me and kissing me heartily. It was the end of quarantine as far as she was concerned, for everyone thought the damage now done,but though she ran in and out freely now, and played with me, as I became convalescent, she did not develop the complaint and has never had it to this day. 

When we were up and about again, my parents began to consider seriously the question of our education, with the result that before long we were introduced to Miss F., a charming young woman, who was to come daily from ten till twelve to teach my eldest sister and myself, the twin being allowed to join in for a time as she liked. She was a born teacher, was Miss F, and lessons were never other than a joy with her; we read and did copies and sums, read and spelt, and had some grounding in history and geography. At twelve o'clock, books were packed up, and we ran upstairs, where nurse helped us to dress and saw us off with a walk  with Miss F, till one o'clock dinner-time. The park was our usual walk, but there was a more exciting one called Cox's Walk, where a rough path led uphill through trees to where a rustic bridge crossed a railway cutting. Down the side of the hill trickled in rainy weather little streams of water, which to us were dignified into rivers, and if only Miss F. would have given us time --and alas, she never could, we would have spent hours floating twig boats down the rivers and making miniature waterfalls. 

When Miss F. had delivered us safely at home, her job was finished, and for the rest of the day we were free to play. True, there were more walks on fine days, walks against which I always rebelled, where they were set against the wonderful attractions of dolls or books. In summer however, there was the garden instead, a world full of even greater possibilities than the nursery. Home-work we had-none: except that week by week we learnt the Sunday's collect over the week-end to recite on a Monday morning. Strangely enough, thou “the night before Christmas," and "We're twins, as anyone can see," remain firmly in my mind, the collects never came with a sense of familiarity when I heard them in after years.

When I say that our lessons were only from from ten to twelve, I am stating only part of the truth. The greatest part of our education was derived from my Father to whom I owe a debt the size of which I have only realised of recent years. To him, the education of his four little girls was a matter of real importance, and with wonderful understanding of the child mind, he made his instruction into a game. When he came home from his mysterious occupation in the City -- it was many years before I knew the nature,of my father's business, a striking instance of his reticence about his private affairs -- he had a quiet tea with my mother, and a short rest, and afterwards was ready to devote the time till bedtime with his children. The heavy hide covered chairs were drawn round the big table and we knelt up round it, our toes scuffling the seats till the hide grew bare and had to be replaced by the humbler substitutes. 

Building we played, with all our boxes of bricks combined to make one great palace, with pillars and windows. The final touch was when Father slipped a nightlight in side, and we sat back breathless on our heels while he lit it and - turned out the gas. The light glowed through the coloured paper windows and to one at least of the audience the palace was very real and full of mystery. He would bring us home great sheets of thin pasteboard from the office, on which we drew with pencils and crayons, pressing closer and closer to each other as we made "a muddly picture" all together. What fun those "muddly pictures" were! The main scheme was decided by solemn discussion at the beginning, and the landscape duly laid down, but each artist filled in her own section according to her own idea. My eldest sister and I would have gone on seriously drawing till the end, but it was my twin you usually turned the game into a riot, by irreverent suggestions. 

"I'm putting in an elephant," she would giggle. 

"You can't. There wouldn't be an elephant in a seaside picture," explained the eldest sister, but my twin was not impressed. In want the elephant, and, amid giggles, she began a chant: 

"Now I'm making a worm..now there's a snail .." 

It was infectious. Before long, insects crawled and crept in every, corner, Dragons flew in the air, strange beasts jostled the boys end girls digging on the sand, end eventually, helpless with laughter, we scribbled wildly over the whole. 

As we grew older, my Father introduced us to paper games and games with small cardboard letters. We made words and took them from each other by additions that made them new words; we wrote a long word on our papers and scored for the number of small words we could make out of it, Round the tea-table at the week-end when he was home and we came down to tea, he introduced spelling and general knowledge as a game . How keen we were not to miss a word in the spelling-bee, and how terribly disappointed when we had scored the maximum misses and had to drop out. Amazing words they were that he expected from us six to ten year olds -- teasers like pneumonia and mnemonics; symmetry and cemetery, and one that, I remember, failed us all time after time -- phlegm. He played General Knowledge in the same way, and we amassed a store of varied information out of all keeping with our age. 

It is not, though , for the teaching, that I owe so big a debt to my father; it was for the instilling of the habit of “looking things up." We could never bring him a question that he failed to answer; if he had not the facts at his finger-tips, he knew where to find them. He showed us, and I think of the three I was the readiest pupil, for books always meant much to me, how to find information; explained the use of dictionary and encyclopaedia, tracked my question through book after book, treating it always with the utmost seriousness till he was able to straighten out the problem for me. It was a priceless foundation, and through all my schooldays he I had at my disposal his reference books and his interest and help in tracking down material for those week-end essays which were at once a joy and a penance. 

My father. I ought to describe him, I suppose, but how can I after the lapse of so many years, with the picture before for my eyes of the upright, young looking man that he still remains in his seventies. Dark he was, dark of hair and of eye, with keen, deep-set eyes, and a kindly smile; not tall, as I realised with a shock of surprise in my schooldays, as one after another the sisters grew long of leg, and reached to his head; small of bone, and spare of flesh, carrying himself well, and walking with a spring. He had a courtly manner, too, and I well remember the glow of pride in him that went as a child of twelve or so through me when he met me with a group of my school friends and raised his hat to us with as much grace as if we had been grown women. I wanted to shout: "That‘'s my father," and had a feeling inside that the other girls’ fathers were just ordinary men of a lesser breed, who would never reach these heights of courtesy. 

But this is looking ahead, for the days of school were not yet. We had. close on five years' of Miss F.’ competent teaching, during which the third sister grew to take part in the lessons, and even the baby was beginning to take notice and want to know. Five peaceful, uneventful years, broken by no event that stands out above the rest, spent almost entirely at home. With such a complete party of our own, we needed few girl friends, and those few we had, only came to tea formally at infrequent intervals. The seaside holiday made a break and there was a thrill. when we all packed up and loaded into a horse bus to ride to Waterloo. Our entertainments we made for ourselves -- concerts and plays on a nursery stage, with parents, nurse and maid and perhaps a friend or two for the audience, and dresses made, by an ingenious nurse, from lace curtains or old scraps turned out my my mother. One hobby of my own I had, and how early it began I cannot say, but it somehow seems that I must have begun to write as soon as I could hold a pencil.