She was a widow, her husband, Captain Hargate, having died a year before.

She had only her pension as an officer's widow, a pittance that scarce sufficed even for the modest wants of herself, Frank, and her little daughter Lucy, now six years old.
"I hope I have not kept tea waiting, mother," Frank said as he ran in.
"It is not my beetles and butterflies this time.

We have been playing a cricket match, and a first rate one it was.

Town boys against the House.
It ended in a tie." "You are only a quarter of an hour late," his mother said, smiling, "which is a great deal nearer being punctual than is usually the case when you are out with your net.

We were just going to begin, for I know your habits too well to give you more than a quarter of an hour's law." "I'm afraid I am horridly unpunctual," Frank said, "and yet, mother, I never go out without making up my mind that I will be in sharp to time.
But somehow there is always something which draws me away." "It makes no matter, Frank.