door, and a creaking of the latch: then Billy, excited, whispering:

“It's locked — it's locked.”

Then the knocking, kicking at the door with childish knees, and the urgent, childish:

“Ursula — our Ursula? Ursula? Eh, our Ursula?”

No reply.

“Ursula! Eh — our Ursula?” the name was shouted now Still no answer.

“Mother, she won't answer,” came the yell. “She's dead.”

“Go away — I'm not dead. What do you want?” came the angry voice of the girl.

“Open the door, our Ursula,” came the complaining cry.