Two little neighbours of theirs, Jacky and Francis, had a poor sick mother who always lay on the sofa, and could hardly bear to have her little boys in the room with her.
Milly and Oliver were never tired of wondering how Jacky and Francis got on with a mother like that.

"How funny, and how dreadful it must be.
Poor Jacky and Francis!" It never came into their, heads to say, "Poor Jacky's mother" too, but then you see they were such little people, and little people have only room in their heads for a very few thoughts at a time.
However, Milly had been away from her mother a good deal lately.

About six months before my story begins she had been sent to school, to a kindergarten, as she was taught to call it.

And there Milly had learnt all kinds of wonderful things--she had learnt how to make mats out of paper, blue mats, and pink mats, and yellow mats, and red mats; she had learned how to make a bit of soft clay look like a box, or a stool, or a bird's nest with three clay eggs inside it; she had begun to add up and take away; and, above all, she had begun to learn geography, and Fraeulein--for Milly's mistress was a German, and had a German name--was just now teaching her about islands, and lakes, and capes, and peninsulas, and many other things that all little girls have to learn about some time or other, unless they wish to grow up dunces.
As for Milly's looks, I have told you already that she had blue eyes and a turn-up nose, and a dear sensible little face.

And she had very thick fair hair, that was always tumbling about her eyes, and making her look, as nurse told her, like "a yellow owl in an ivy bush." Milly loved most people, except perhaps John the gardener, who was rather cross to the children, and was always calling to them not to walk "on them beds," and to be sure not to touch any of his fruit or flowers.