There was no good separating me. I made mums see that, and I promised her I'd do my very best not to get the whooping-cough; and I didn't! That was something to be proud of, now, wasn't it? You mightn't think so, but it was; for I really believe I stopped myself having it. Ever so often, when I heard them all crowing and choking, and holding on to the table, and scolding—how Serry did scold sometimes—over it, I felt as if I was going to start coughing and whooping too— I did, I give you my word. But I just wouldn't. I said to myself it was all fancy and nonsense—though I don't a bit believe it was—and I drank some water, and got all right again. And after a week or two, the catchy feeling in my throat went off.

It was a good thing I kept well, for mums did need some comfort. The worst of it didn't come for a good while—that's the tiresome part of the whooping-cough, you never know where you are with it, it lasts such a time; and when you think it's about over, very often you find children have got some other illness from it—I mean something the matter with their chests or throats, or bothers like that.

It was Maud that got it first, and seemed the worst for a good while; but then she took a turn and got hungry again, and the doctor began to speak of our soon going away somewhere for change of air; and we were getting jollier, and mums looking less worried, when all at once Hebe got very bad indeed. It was partly her own fault, though she hadn't meant it. She had been feeling very ill indeed, but she didn't like to say so, for she thought most likely the others felt just as bad, and you know she's dreadfully unselfish. Often and often she'd get up in the middle of the night if Serry called out she was thirsty or anything—very often it was only that she fancied the clothes were slipping off, or some nonsense like that—and Hebe may have caught cold by that. Anyway, there came one morning that poor Hebe couldn't get up at all; indeed, she could scarcely speak. We all ran in to see what was the matter, and she just smiled a tiny little smile, and put out her poor little hand—it was burning hot—and whispered, 'I daresay I'll be better soon.'

Nurse was frightened; but she's very good and sensible. She just told me to go down to mother's room and ask her to come up, as Hebe had had a bad night, and perhaps we'd better send for the doctor to come early. And, of course, I knew how to do it without startling mums more than could be helped.

All the same, if she had been dreadfully startled it couldn't have been worse than had to be. For it was the beginning of Hebe's being awfully ill. I can't tell you properly what it was; it was something about her lungs, so bad that she was wrapped in blankets and carried down to a room beside mother's, where she could be perfectly quiet. And a strange nurse came—one with a cap and an apron, like you see in pictures of children in hospitals; she was rather pretty and not old at all, and she and mums took turns of watching Hebe; and the air of the room had to be kept exactly the same hotness, like a vinery, you know. And there was a queer, strange, solemn feeling all about, that I can't explain. We all felt it, even though they didn't tell us—not even me—how bad the poor little sweet was. The angel of death came very near us that time, mums told us afterwards, and I know it was true. One night I almost felt it myself. I woke all of a sudden, and sat bolt up in bed. I had thought I heard Hebe calling me—I was sure I did—and then I remembered I'd been dreaming about her. I thought we were walking in a wood. It was evening, or afternoon, and it seemed to be getting dark, and I fancied we were looking for the others—it was muddled up with their having gone out that night, you see—and I felt very worried and unhappy.

'Hebe,' I said, 'it's getting very dark.'

'Yes,' she said, 'it is, darker and darker, Jack'; and her voice sounded strange. 'Jack,' she went on, 'hold my hand, I'm rather frightened'; and I felt that she was shivering.

I think I was rather frightened myself, but I tried to comfort her up.

'Perhaps it'll get lighter again after a bit,' I said. 'I don't think the sun's set yet.'

'Hasn't it?' she said. 'I think it's just going to, though. Jack, can you say that verse about the shadows or the darkness? I can't remember it.'

But I couldn't remember it properly either; however I tried. I could only say, '"I will be with thee"—is it that, Hebe?—"I will be with thee."' And she squeezed my hand tighter, and I thought she said, 'Yes, that's it, Jack.'

And then again I fancied she pulled her hand out of mine, and ran on in front quite fast, calling joyfully, 'I see them, Jack. Come on quick— Jack, Jack.'

It was then I awoke, and I found I had been squeezing my own hand quite tight. But I felt sure Hebe had been calling me.

I sat up and listened, but there was no sound. I began to cry; I thought Hebe was dead, and then I remembered that the verse I couldn't get right in my dream was about the valley of the shadow of death, and at first that made me feel worse, till all of a sudden it came into my head that it wasn't 'the valley of death' but only 'the valley of the shadow of death,' And that seemed to mean that Hebe had been near it—near death, I mean,—'near enough for the shadow of his wings to fall over her,' was the way mums said it when I told her my dream afterwards. That comforted me. I got out of bed very softly in the darkness and crept to the landing, where the balusters run round, and listened.

The gas lamp was burning faintly down below, and I heard a slight rustling as if people were moving about. And after a while the door of a room opened softly, and two men came out. It was father and the doctor. I couldn't have believed big men could have moved so quietly, and I listened as if I was all ears.

'I think, now——' was the most I could catch of what Dr. Marshall said.

But then came much plainer—of course I know his voice so well—from father, 'Thank God.'

And I knew Hebe was better.

I shall always think of that night, always, even when I'm quite old, when I read that verse. Afterwards mother explained to me more about it. She said she thought that to good people—you know what I mean by 'good people'—Christians—it should always seem as if, after all, even when they really do have to die, it is only the shadow that they have to go through—'the valley of the shadow of death'; that Death itself in any dreadful lasting way is not really there, because of the presence that is promised to us—'I will be with thee.'

I can't say it anything like as nicely as mums did, but I do understand it pretty well all the same; and if ever I feel frightened of death in a wrong way, I think about it. Mother said we're meant to be afraid of death in one way, just as we would be afraid and are meant to be afraid of anything dark and unknown and very solemn. But that's different.

And dear little Hebe had really been some way into the valley of the shadow. When she got quite well, she told me about it—of the feelings and thoughts she had had that night when for some hours they thought she was going far away from us, out of this world altogether. For she had had all her senses. She thought about us all, and wished she could see us, and she wished she could hold my hand—'your dear, rough, brown hand, Jack,' she said. (I'm not quite as particular to keep my hands very nice as I should be, I'm afraid!)

Wasn't it queer? I'm sure her feelings had come up to me through the floor and made me dream.



CHAPTER VII

FOUR 'IF'S' AND A COINCIDENCE

Now what happened next was this—in one way it was almost the nicest thing that we had ever had; that is to say, it would have been but for the pull-backs to it. Very jolly things generally do have pull-backs, I think.

This was it. Everybody who knows anything about children's illnesses knows that when they're getting better they should have change of air, especially after whooping-cough. Indeed, even before they're much better of whooping-cough they're often sent away, for change of air helps actually to cure it. And a week or two after Hebe had been so very bad, the doctor began to talk of the others going away.

It was the end of April now, and it was nice, fine weather, and promised to be a mild spring and early summer. Anne and Serry had really not been very ill in themselves, though they had been noisy enough with their coughing. Maud had been the worst next to Hebe, but as she had begun first she had got better first. And she got better in a very sensible way. She did everything in a sensible way, you know. She never fussed or fidgeted, and was very patient and cheerful. She took all her medicines, and even if nurse or mums forgot anything the doctor had said, you may be sure, if Maud herself had heard it, she wouldn't let it be forgotten. Yes, really, she was too 'old-fashioned' for anything, as old nurse said. She wasn't quite as sweet as Hebe— Hebe looked like a little crushed flower when she first began to be better; you could scarcely help kissing her every minute. She isn't so what people call 'clinging' as Hebe, but still she's a good, kind little girl, and it's not hard to get on with her. My life would be a very different affair if I had four sisters all like Hebe and Maud—wouldn't it just?

So Maud was pretty well again in herself, and the other two hadn't much the matter with them, and I of course was all right, though dear old mums said I was looking pale, and that I'd been such a comfort to her and knocked myself up. I think she said it partly to show that she wasn't thinking less of me than of the girls because I hadn't been ill.

And just as things were like that, Dr. Marshall said we should go away for change of air.

But unluckily 'we' only meant Anne and Serena and Maudie and I. Not Hebe—no, indeed. That was quite another story. We wanted 'bracing,' the doctor said—nice fresh hill or moor air, but for Hebe anything like cold or strong air was out of the question. In the first place she couldn't be moved for some time yet, and when she did go it must be to somewhere mild. He spoke of somewhere abroad first, but then he thought it would be getting too hot at the warm places, and as far as the others were concerned, there were just as good in England. So in a sort of a way it came to be settled that when Hebe did go, it should be to the Isle of Wight.

That didn't fix anything about the rest of us, however. And there were a good many things to think of.

I knew all about them. You see mums has always told me everything. She knows she can trust me. It's with it being so that I have anything to write. I'm behind the scenes. I don't see how children who are just told things straight off like, 'You're going to the seaside on Tuesday,' or 'Nurse is leaving to be married, and you're not going to have a regular nurse any more now you're so big'— I don't see how they could have anything interesting to write. It's the way things work out that I think makes life interesting, and children don't often look at things that way. But I couldn't have helped it, for I knew all about how things happened, and how mother planned and thought them over, and when she was happy and when she was anxious. It was all like pictures moving along—one leading into another.

Just now mother was anxious. I've said already that we're not rich—not as rich as we look. That's to say it's not father's and mother's money, but gran's. Of course you might say that's the same thing—father being an only child and gran so proud of him being so clever and distinguished, though not in ways that make much money. But it isn't the same, however kind gran is.

And just now it was specially not the same. For, of course, long before this, gran had had to be told about the sad loss of the diamond ornament, and it wasn't in nature for him to be pleased about it, now was it?

He'd very likely have been still more vexed if it hadn't been for the whooping-cough coming so soon upon the top of it. He didn't know that the one had brought the other, both thanks to Anne. Father and mother thought there was no need to tell him that part of it, for he was always ready to be down upon Anne. Her careless, thoughtless ways were just what worried him particularly.

But he was kind and loving in his own way. He never wrote another word of reproach about the diamond thing after he heard of the trouble we were in. He was very glad I didn't get the illness. I don't know that I am a special pet of his, but I'm the only boy and named after him. I daresay it's that, though, as far as real favourites go, I think it's Hebe he cares most for. He was terribly sorry about her, and wrote that if she needed anything expensive, mother wasn't to give two thoughts to the cost. That letter came just about the time Dr. Marshall said we should all go away, and mums and I had a talk over it.

'It's very good of gran,', said mums. 'I do think he's been wonderfully good. But still it doesn't show me what to do. You see, Jack, when Hebe goes away I must go with her—I think Rowley and I could manage without nurse—and that would be pretty expensive to begin with. Still, I shouldn't so much mind writing to him about that, but it's for the rest of you. I don't see how I'm to manage it, and I don't want to worry your father just now. He is so busy with his new book, and he's been so put back with the anxiety and bad nights while Hebe was so ill.'

For you know it isn't only writing books father does. He's busy all day with his other work. I don't think I should say exactly what his appointment is, for then you'd know who he was, but it's to do with Parliament and the Government.

'Why can't we go to Furzely?' I said stupidly. For I had been told all about it having been let for six months. Furzely is our—at least gran's—country-house. It's not bad, but we're rather tired of it, and the housekeeper is grumpy. 'That wouldn't cost much, would it?'

'My dear boy, you forget, the Wilmingtons are to be there till August.'

'Oh, of course,' I said.

'And besides, Furzely isn't the sort of air Dr. Marshall wants for you all just now,' she went on. 'It's healthy, but it's nothing particular; it's not hill air or moor air. Besides, it's out of the question. Strayling or Fewforest—those were the places he said, or somewhere in their neighbourhood. And I don't know either of them in the least. I've no idea if there are lodgings or houses to be got; besides a house would cost far too much, and I should have to send two or three servants. Oh dear, what troubles have come with gran's lending me that unlucky ornament!'

'I don't think that's quite fair, mums,' I couldn't help saying. 'The troubles have come through Anne's fault. I wish she would see it that way, but I don't believe she thinks about it much now.'

'I hope she does,' said mother. 'And of course,' she went on, 'it's wrong of me to grumble so. Illnesses come through nobody's fault! And I should be so thankful that Hebe is getting better that nothing else should seem anything. But it is real practical difficulty about money just now that I mind the most. You see, dear, I have to pay all your teachers just the same. It wouldn't be fair to Miss Stirling or any of them to stop just because the girls have got ill.'

I felt very sorry, and I didn't really know what to propose.

'Isn't there any one you could ask about those places?' I said. 'Mightn't we perhaps get lodgings at a farmhouse, where it wouldn't be at all dear? Not grand ones, you know, mums. And we'd all wait on ourselves a good deal, so that nurse could help the farmer's wife to cook for us if she needed. Nurse loves cooking.'

Mums' face cleared a little. She does worry sometimes more than she needs to.

'That would be very nice, Jack,' she said. 'I wonder if there's anybody who could tell us about where such a place is likely to be found.'

'We'd live quite plainly,' I went on. 'It would be fun to be almost like poor children for a while. I don't mean poor, poor children, but like rather well-off cottage children.'

'H-m,' said mother. 'I don't think you'd find it as amusing as you think. However, you would of course have to live plainly in some ways, but still it must be a comfortable sort of place. It would not do to run any risks for the girls after their illness.'

Just at that moment Alfred brought in a note that had come, and 'they,' he said—why do servants always say 'they' for a messenger when there's only one?—'were waiting for an answer.'

The note was from young Mrs. Chasserton, Cousin Dorothea. She had just come back to London, she said, and she was so sorry to hear how ill "the children" had all been'—thank you, all but one, if you please. And would mother come to see her? She had got a horrid cold, and couldn't go out, but she wasn't a bit afraid of whooping-cough—she'd had it. 'Please come to tea this afternoon, and bring any child that's well enough to go out.'

'Oh, I can't,' said mother, 'I've too much on my mind!'

'Oh, do go,' I said, 'it'll do you good. You've not had the least little change for ever so long. And let me come with you, mums, as the others mayn't go out yet. I like Cousin Dorothea; and perhaps she could tell us of some farmhouse, as she's always lived in the country.'

So mother wrote a word to say she'd go.

And that afternoon we did go. I had never been in the Chassertons' house before. It was a nice little place, and it was all decked out like a doll's house with Dorothea's wedding presents. I amused myself very well by walking round the room looking at them all. They weren't very well arranged. There was a corner cupboard with glass doors, filled with china, and it was all mixty-maxty. Blue or plain-coloured china on the same shelf as many-coloured Dresden or oriental. (I know something about china, and I mean to know more before I've done with it.) The key was in the lock, and I couldn't resist opening the doors and moving one or two pieces to see how much better they might look.

But just then Dorothea called me over to tea. She was a sensible girl. She'd had some bread-and-butter and jam ready spread, thicker than those silly wafer slices ladies eat, and the jam was my favourite—strawberry. I felt very comfortable. I was glad I'd made mother come. She looked brighter.

I spoke to Cousin Dorothea about the bad way her china was arranged.

'Yes,' she said, 'I know it is.'

She spoke quite gravely, but still I thought I saw a kind of a smile go round the corners of her mouth. I suppose she was thinking it was very funny for a boy to care how china was arranged. I don't see why. Boys have got eyes, and some of them have got good taste—more than some girls.

'It was washed while we were away,' she said, 'and the housemaid put it all in, according to the size of the things, I suppose. Nothing to do with the colour or kinds.'

'I've moved a few of them,' I said; 'they look better already. You've got some nice bits; there are one or two very old; I think I saw some Worcester.'

'How learned you are, Jack!' said Dorothea.

But I didn't see it. Nothing's easier than to pick up a smattering—just enough to tell one cup from another, and to seem very wise about it. I didn't mean to do that.

'No,' I said; 'I'm not. There's one cup I can't make out at all.'

'Do you mean the one with the deep purplish flowers?' said she. 'Oh, it is sharp of you to have spotted that one! No one knows for certain what it is; it was given me by an old servant of ours who married and went to live up in Yorkshire; and once when we were at Harrogate we went to see her. She said there were a few old pieces of it in the cottage her husband and she lived at when they were first married, and she gave us each one for a keepsake.'

'Was she your nurse?' asked mother.

'No, only a housemaid; but she was a particularly nice woman, superior to her station. And she and her husband have got on very well. He was under-bailiff to Lord Uxfort up in the north, and then an uncle died and left him a small farm near—oh, where is it near? I forget,—but it's not so very far from London. I've always promised to go to see her some day.'

'That reminds me,' said mums. 'I haven't told you our present difficulty.'

Till now Dorothea had been hearing about the whooping-cough, and asking all about the diamond brooch losing. She had known about it, for father had written to Mr. Chasserton to ask if Cousin Dorothea could possibly throw any light upon it,—had she noticed it on their way home, or had she only noticed it going there, or when?—but she hadn't been able to remember anything at all.

She was sorry about it; she's very sweet, very sweet indeed, and nice to tell troubles to; she looks so sorry with her kind blue eyes, though I don't think she's a very clever girl.

'I feel quite guilty about it all,' she said; 'for it was for my sake you went to that unlucky Drawing-room, and that all these troubles came. But what was the new one you were going to tell me about, dear Valeria?'

'Oh, that isn't exactly a trouble, only a difficulty,' said mums. And she went on to explain about the change to the country and my idea of a farmhouse.

Cousin Dorothea listened, and tried to look very wise.

'I'm afraid nowhere near my home would be any good,' she said. 'Devonshire's not bracing at all.'

Suddenly a thought jumped into my head.

'That nice woman,' I said, 'the one who gave you the cup, is it bracing where she lives?'

Dorothea gave a little jump.

'Oh,' she said, 'she'd be the very person to take care of the children if she had rooms, and if her husband would let her take lodgers, and if the place is bracing, and if I could remember where it is!'

We couldn't help laughing.

'Four "if's" indeed,' said mother.

But Dorothea didn't laugh; she was too busy cudgelling her brains.

'I've a feeling,' she said, 'that it is a bracing place; that Homer—isn't it a funny name for a woman, it was her surname, and the boys used to call her all manner of nonsense because of it—"Iliad" and "Odyssey" of course,—I've a feeling that Homer wrote something about moors and fresh air. If I could but remember!'

'Would you know it if you heard it?' I said.

'Suppose we got a railway guide and looked at some names?' said mother.

'Is there a railway station there?' I asked.

'Oh yes, I know there is one near, for Homer wrote all that when she asked us to go down for a day. Stay, there's something about English history mixed up with it in my mind. I do believe it's coming. Ring the bell, Jack, dear, and we'll look through an A B C. It's something about putting the fires out at night, you know—the old law.'

'Curfew?' said mother.

'Ye-es, but it's not quite that. But——'

Just then the servant came, and we got the railway guide.

'Look at "f's," Jack,' said Dorothea.

I read some 'f's,' but she shook her head. Then I said to mother—

'Here's one of the places Dr. Marshall was speaking about. "Fewforest," it——'

Cousin Dorothea clapped her hands.

'That's it,' she said joyfully.

'What a coincidence!' said mother.

'I remember about it now,' said Dorothea. 'They were so afraid of fire there, because the village stands close to a thick wood—at least it did then—that the Curfew bell was rung there long after it had been given up in many places. And so it got from Curfew Forest to Fewforest.'

'It must be a jolly old place, mums,' I said. 'Do let's find out about it.'



CHAPTER VIII

MOSSMOOR FARM

And so we did. Dorothea wrote to her home, and got Mrs. Parsley's proper address. Mrs. Parsley was the farmer's wife who used to be 'Homer'—rather a come-down from 'Homer' to 'Parsley,' wasn't it? and it was near Fewforest. Then she wrote to Mrs. Parsley, 'sounding' her a little, and the day she got the answer she brought it straight off to us.

Mums and I were in the little drawing-room by ourselves, for the girls were still kept rather out of the way, as they coughed a good deal now and then. Hebe by this time was able to get up a little and lie on a sofa in her room, and the others used to go in and sit with her in turns,—Anne the most, of course, for she reads aloud nicely, and she's not at all stupid, and Hebe's very fond of her. I used to sit with her too a good deal, but really that spring I was very busy. I had some of my lessons. I went to Miss Stirling's house when the girls began to get better, instead of her coming to us, just for fear of infection, as she'd never had the whooping-cough. And I had heaps to do for mother, besides helping to amuse the two little ones.

My greatest rest was to be alone with mums sometimes for a bit in the afternoon. Now and then I had tea with her.

We were having tea that day when Cousin Dorothea came in, all in a fuss and quite eager. She had just got the letter.

'Such a nice answer from dear old Homer' she said. 'She'll be delighted to do anything for relations of mine, and she doesn't think you could find a healthier place. It's as bracing as anything, and yet not cold. She says there's a small convalescent Home not far from the farm, and that the place was chosen out of ever so many by some rich people who built it, just because of its healthiness. Now I come to think of it, I'm sure I've heard of that Home before, but I can't think from whom.'

'That's all very satisfactory indeed, and thank you very much, dear,' said mother. 'But—what about the possibility of lodgings?'

'I was coming to that,' said Dorothea, and indeed she was almost out of breath with such a lot to tell. 'Homer says there are really none to be had——'

'Oh dear!' exclaimed mums and I.

'But,' Dorothea went on, 'they have some spare rooms at the farm, and occasionally they have had thoughts of letting them—I mean, of taking lodgers. But they're very plainly furnished, and she's always busy, so her husband was rather afraid of beginning it. She wouldn't exactly like to offer them, but she says if my friends would go down to see the rooms, and thought they'd do, she would be pleased to do her best. I can guarantee they'd be beautifully clean.'

Dorothea looked quite excited about it. She was so proud of being able to help mums.

'I think it sounds charming,' said mother. 'How many rooms are there?'

'Two big bedrooms, and a tiny one, and a sort of best kitchen that could be made comfortable in a plain way as a sitting-room,' said Dorothea consulting the letter. 'You could take down a few sofa rugs, and two or three folding chairs and so on, I daresay?'

'Oh yes, easily,' said mother. 'But I quite agree with Mrs. Parsley that I had better see the rooms. How long does it take by train, and how far is the farm—what's the name of it, by the bye?—from the station?'

'About a mile and a half. But they have a pony-cart of some kind and could meet you. The name is Mossmoor—Mossmoor Farm, Fewforest.'

It seemed wonderfully lucky. We were all three as pleased as anything. There was only one thing I wanted to make sure of.

'Mums,' I whispered. I was just giving her her second cup of tea. I always make her tea when we're alone. 'Mums, if you do go down one day to see the farm, you'll take me with you, won't you?'

Cousin Dorothea has quick ears. She overheard.

'Oh yes, Valeria,' she said, 'you must take him. I consider it's more than half thanks to him that we've thought of it.'

I do like Dorothea.

Mums smiled.

'We must see what father says,' she answered. 'Of course there's the railway fare.'

'But you couldn't go alone, mums,' I reminded her; 'and you know I'm only half, still. Father would never have time to go, and if you took Rowley she'd cost full fare.'

'Oh, you old-fashioned child!' said Cousin Dorothea, laughing. 'Dear, you must take him.'

I felt sure mums would, after that.

'I know I could help you about the rooms and everything better than anybody,' I said.

And I knew I could.

I did go. Father laughed and said I was the proper person to take his place, as he couldn't possibly go. So it was settled, and one fine morning off we set.

It was really a fine morning,—I don't mean it only as an expression. It was really a lovely morning. Let me see, it must have been May by then. I'll look it up in my diary of that year, and fill in the exact date afterwards. It was sunny and mild, though there was a little nice wind too. Mums and I felt like two children out of school, or two captives out of prison, when we found ourselves in a jolly comfortable railway carriage all alone, flying along through the bright green fields with the trees in their new spring dresses and the sky as blue as blue,—all so jolly, you know, after the long winter in our London square and all the troubles we'd had.

Everything seemed at last to be going to begin to come right.

'I feel in such much better spirits,' said mums. 'Hebe does seem to be improving so fast now, and the weather is so nice.'

Dear little mums, she was looking so pretty. She had a brown dress with very soft, fussy trimming, and a brown bonnet, with something pink—just a tiny bit of pink. She generally wears bonnets, except when we're regularly in the country. They suit her, and I like them better than hats for her. I hate those mothers who are always trying to look young. And I think mums looks all the younger because she dresses like a mother and not like a girl. I've got ideas about dressing though I am a boy. I can't help having them.

'I do hope Mossmoor Farm will be nice,' she went on again. 'The only thing is I wish we were going to be all together there.'

'So do I,' I said. I hate being away from mums, and then I've a feeling she may be wanting me always.

'Perhaps, if Hebe gets much stronger at Ventnor, after two or three weeks there, the doctor may let us join you all at this place,' said mother.

That was a nice idea.

'It would be awfully jolly,' I said. 'We'd have nothing left to wish for then, would we, mums, except—if only the diamond thing could be found!'

I don't know what put it in my head just then; we hadn't spoken of it for ever so long. I was almost sorry I had said it, for mums' face clouded over a little.

'Yes, indeed,' she said. 'But I fear there's no chance of that now. And really gran has been so good about it. He might have been very, very angry; for, after all, it was a sort of carelessness of mine. I should have made sure it was firm the very last moment before I put it on.'

But I began to talk of other things to put it out of her head. And before long—at least it didn't seem long, railway journeys do so depend on how you're feeling—we pulled up at a pretty little station, and we saw that the name of it was Fewforest.

We got out, feeling rather important, and perhaps mums was a tiny bit nervous. You see she's very seldom had to do things like looking for houses, by herself. She's always nearly had father or gran. She was rather proud of it, too, and so was I. I was determined she shouldn't feel lonely or bothered if I could help it.

And everything went wonderfully right. It is like that sometimes.

To begin with, I never saw a jollier railway station. It seems in the middle of a wood, and the station-master's house is like a Swiss cottage. I've never been in Switzerland— I've never been out of England—but mother has, lots, and of course I've seen pictures. And everybody says Fewforest is quite as pretty as heaps of places people travel miles and miles over the sea to visit.

There was a little kind of a phaeton standing outside, and a rather fat boy with red cheeks on the box.

He touched his cap as we came out, and, getting still redder, he mumbled something about 'Measter Parsley,' and 'Mossmoor.'

'Yes,' said mother, 'we are going to Mossmoor Farm. Are you to drive us?'

He touched his cap again, and tried to explain that his master was very sorry he couldn't come himself; something or other unexpected, we couldn't make out what, having happened to prevent him.

I wasn't sorry. If the farmer had come, we'd have had to talk to him, for civility's sake, and it would have been a great bore, when we wanted to talk to each other and to look about us. We certainly didn't need to talk to the fat boy. He looked most thankful when we were settled in our places behind, and he didn't have to see us at all, though his ears kept red all the way to Mossmoor, I could see, just from shyness. I got to know him quite well afterwards, and his ears weren't generally redder than other people's. He was a nice boy; his name was Simon Wanderer; it didn't suit him, for he'd never been farther away from his home at Mossmoor than six miles. I don't believe he has yet, though he must be seventeen by now.

It was a lovely drive. I have been it lots of times since of course, and I always like it; but that first time there was something extra about it. It was all new to us, and then we did so enjoy being in the country again, and there was a nice feeling as if we were having an adventure too.

Part of the way is all through woods; then after that comes a heathy bit, and then a clear bit of common, and then you go up for a while with trees thick at one side of the road and at the other a beautiful sort of stretching-to-the-sky view. Then you turn sharp down a lane, and at a corner where another lane—quite a short one—leads on to a heath again, is the Farm.

We got out at the gate. There's no drive to the front of the house, and this first time Mrs. Parsley wouldn't have thought it 'manners' to meet us in the stable-yard. She was standing at the gate. I saw in a minute she was nice. She had a pleasant face, not too smiley, and no make up about it.

'I am pleased to see you, ma'am,' she said, 'and Master Warwick too, and I'm so glad it's a fine day. Real May weather, isn't it, ma'am?'

'Yes, indeed,' said mums. 'We couldn't see your pretty home to greater advantage, Mrs. Parsley.'

Then Mrs. Parsley smiled more than she had done yet.

'I can't deny, ma'am, that it's a sweet spot,' she said, 'and a healthy. It's coldish in winter, it's true, but then it's a cold that you don't feel in the same piercing way as when it's damp. The air's that bracing about here, ma'am.'

'So they tell me,' said mother. 'And that's just what we're looking for.' Then she went on to tell about the whooping-cough, and though Cousin Dorothea had written about it already, Mrs. Parsley seemed as interested as could be. People like that—I mean people you can't call gentlemen and ladies, though they're not poor, and regular poor people, too—do love talking about illnesses—other people's as well as their own. And she had a lot of questions to ask about 'Miss Dorothea' too. She 'did hope as she'd come down to Mossmoor some day.'

All this time we were going towards the house. But it was rather a slow business, doing so much talking by the way, and I was in a fidget to see the rooms and find out if they'd do. There was no hall or passage; we went straight into a large kitchen, a very large one. You didn't see at first how big it was, because just round the door—to keep out the draught, I suppose—there was a fixed wooden screen, like what you see in lots of cottages. I was a little surprised that there was no hall, for, outside, the house looked really rather grand; it might have been called 'Mossmoor Grange,' for it was built of nice dull red old bricks and the windows were very pretty—out-jutting, you know, and with tiny panes. But once you were well inside the kitchen you couldn't have wished it any different. It was so jolly; not a bit messy, you know, as if plates and dishes were washed there, or potatoes peeled, or anything like that, for there was a good-sized back kitchen where all that was done. The floor was tiled, with good thick rugs here and there, and there was a regular old grandfather's clock and bright brass pans and things on the wall.

I wondered at first if this could be the kitchen we were to have as a sitting-room. But Mrs. Parsley soon explained.

'Won't you sit down and rest a bit, ma'am,' she said, 'before I show you the rooms?'

But mums and I both said we weren't at all tired.

'Well, then,' she said, 'if you'll be so good, we'll step through this way,' and she opened a door at quite the other side of the kitchen. 'You'll have a little lunch, I hope,' said the kind woman, 'after we've seen the rooms,' and she nodded towards a table, which was all spread with a white cloth and on it two or three dishes, one with a cold ham, and another with some kind of a pie or tart, and a big jug of milk. I was getting hungry, but still I cared most of all to see the rooms.

Through the door there was a tiny hall. It had a nice window, and a door stood open at the other end.

'This is the summer kitchen, as we always call it,' said Mrs. Parsley. 'I had a little fire lighted just for you to see, it's nice and comfortable,'—she called it 'com,' not cum-fortable,'—'even if the weather's chilly.'

It was a dear room—beautiful deep windows with seats round them, and nice old cupboards, one with glass doors, and a queer kind of sofa with a straight-up back and a long red cushion. The chairs were plain wood and everything was plain, but not a bit common; ever so much nicer than lodgings, you know, like what there are sometimes at the seaside with horrid flowery carpets all staring, and mirrors with gilt frames, and shaky little chiffoniers that won't hold anything. Here it was all solid and comfortable; there was nothing we could break supposing we did 'rampage' about, as nurse calls it. Even the kitchen fireplace was nice; I thought to myself what jolly toffy we could make on a wet day.

'Oh, this is a nice room,' said mums; 'nothing could be better.'

Mrs. Parsley did look pleased, and in a minute or two she opened a door we hadn't noticed. It looked like a part of the wooden panels, and there was a funny little stair.

'This leads to the small bedroom, ma'am,' she said. 'There's a door through it to the other two, but there's also doors to them on the landing over the big kitchen, which you get to up the regular staircase. But if the young gentleman was to have this room it might be a convenience for him to get to it without having to go all the way round and pass through the other bedrooms.'

It was a funny little room—very jolly though,—just a bed and a chest of drawers, a toilet-table, and a shelf across a corner for a washhand-stand, and two chairs. But I liked it very much, and the two big bedrooms that we got into through it were really very nice—carpets in the middle, and in one a regular polished bedstead with curtains. I wouldn't have liked it, but, as it turned out, Anne did. And it was very big; plenty of room for her and Maud too. In the other room there were two smaller beds; one would do for Serry, and the other for nurse.

And everything was as clean as clean—lavendery too—not a bit fusty or musty.

'Really,' said mums, 'nothing could be nicer. I suppose these are all the rooms you have to spare, Mrs. Parsley?'

There was one other, as tiny as mine, but it was at the opposite side of the house. Still mother thought it would do for me if Hebe was able to come at the end of the time, and then nurse could have mine.

'And if I could run down myself for a night or so,' she said, 'I daresay Serry and Maud could sleep together; there'd be plenty of room for me beside Anne.'

Then she and Mrs. Parsley went on to talk about sheets and pillow-cases, and stupid things like that, so I took out my notebook—I always have a notebook—and went poking about to see what things we'd better bring down with us from London. I made quite a tidy list, though mums wouldn't let me bring all I wanted; and some of the things Mrs. Parsley had already when I spoke about them, only she hadn't put them out.

Then we went down again by the big staircase—all old brown wood and nobbly balusters: mother said it was really beautiful—which ran down to a kind of hall behind the kitchen, and then we had luncheon. I'll never forget it. Either I was awfully hungry, or the things were extra good—perhaps both—but I don't think I ever tasted such nice ham, or such a splendid home-made cake.



CHAPTER IX

SPYING THE LAND

After luncheon we had still an hour and a half before we needed to start for the station. Mrs. Parsley asked us if we would like to stroll about the garden and the farm a little, but mums was tired. She did go outside the house to a nice sheltered corner where there was a rustic bench, and there she said she would enjoy the air and rest at the same time.

But I wasn't the least tired. I wanted to enjoy the air without resting. So mums asked Mrs. Parsley to tell me where I could go without any fear of losing my way, or coming back too late.

Mrs. Parsley considered.

'There's a beautiful path through the wood,' she said, 'that brings you out at the end of what we call our village. It's "Fewforest, South End," by rights, for Fewforest is very straggly. It's divided into north end and south end, and houses between, here and there. The old church is at South End, I'm glad to say, for it makes it nice and convenient for us; no excuses for staying away if it's a bad day, though, indeed, I think our folk love their church. We've been very favoured in the clergy here for a many years.'

'I'd like to see the church,' I said. I always like to see churches. 'Will it be open, Mrs. Parsley?'

'Oh yes, sir, bless you, sure to be. We've all the new ways here. Mr. Joyce would never hold with a church that was kept locked.'

Mother smiled a little.

'The old ways, I like to call them, Mrs. Parsley,' she said. 'The old ways we're coming back to, I'm glad to say, after putting them aside for so long that people had almost forgotten they were the really old original ones.'

Mrs. Parsley didn't mind her saying that, I could see.

'True, ma'am, that's just as Mr. Joyce puts it,' she said.

Then she explained to me exactly how I should go. I was to make a round, coming back by the high road. In this way I should pass up the village, and see the post office, which was also a telegraph office, and the doctor's house. It's always a good thing in a new place to see all you can.

'And some little distance behind the church, so to say,' added Mrs. Parsley, 'standing on rather high ground, you'll see the Convalescent Home, Master Jack. We're quite proud of it now, though at the beginning some folk were silly enough to think it'd bring infections and illnesses to the place. But them as has charge of it know better than that; every care's taken. And there's some sweet young ladies who come down turn about, one with another, to help with the children. It's a pretty sight, I can tell you, to see the poor dears picking up as they do here. They'll get quite rosy before they go, some of them, and they poor peakit-like faces they come with.'

'Peakit-like' means pinched and miserable-looking. It is a north country expression, mums says, for Mrs. Parsley belonged to the north when she was young.

Well, off I set. I hadn't any adventures—that was for afterwards. I found my way quite well, and I enjoyed the walk very much. The church was rather queer. It was very old; there were strange tablets on the walls and monuments in the corners, and part of the pavement was gravestones—the side parts, not the middle. But it was new too. There weren't any pews, and it was all open and airy. But still it had the feeling of being very old. I don't know much about architecture—it's one of the things I mean to learn. I know pews are all wrong, still they're rather fun. At one church near Furzely, where we sometimes go in wet weather, there are some square ones with curtains all round, and the two biggest pews have even fireplaces in them—they're exactly like tiny rooms. I daresay there were pews like that once in Fewforest church, for it certainly is very old.

I stood in front of the chancel some time looking at the high painted window behind the altar; it was very old. I could see it by the cracks here and there where you could tell it had been mended. I couldn't help thinking what lots and lots of people must have looked at that window—at those very figures in it and the patterns round the edge—since it was first put up there. Lots of children as little as me, who grew up to be men and women, and then got old and died. Isn't it queer to think how men and women must die, and that bits of glass that anybody could break with a touch can last on for hundreds of years? I daresay some of the children I was thinking of, the long long ago ones, kept on looking at that window every Sunday, and saints' days too—for people long ago went much oftener to church on saints' days, you know,—all through their lives; for before there were railways, or even coaches, and travelling cost so dear, lots of country people never went farther away than a few miles from their own village at all. It is strange to think of. I thought to myself I'd like to show Anne the church. She'd understand all these feelings it gave me—perhaps she'd make poetry about it. She does make poetry sometimes. I was sure she'd like the church.

But I was afraid of being late for mother, or making her fidgety that I was going to be late, so I turned to go.

Just as I was leaving the church, I saw that there was some one there beside myself. I hadn't noticed her before, but she must have been there all the time. It was a lady. She had been kneeling, but she got up and passed out quickly. I had only time to catch a very little glimpse of her face, but even in that tiny glimpse I felt as if I had seen it before. But I couldn't think where. She didn't see me, I was a little in shadow, and she looked eager and hurried, as if she had plenty to do, and had only run in to say her prayers for a minute.

Where had I seen that rather frowning, eager look in a face before? It did bother me so, but I couldn't remember.

That was a tiny bit of an adventure, after all. I shouldn't have said I hadn't any at all that day.



I walked home through the village—that end of it, that's to say, the south end—past the doctor's house, with a big plate on the door, 'Dr. Hepland,' and the one or two everything shops (don't you love 'everything' shops? I do. I stood at the door of one of them, to sniff the jolly mixty-maxty, regular country shop smell), and the post office. And then I felt I knew the place pretty tidily for a beginning. There was lots of time. I'd seen what o'clock it was at the church, so I strolled along comfortably. Some of the people stared at me a bit. It was rather early in the season for visitors, you see. But I didn't mind. I just stood still, with my hands behind me, and looked well round at the view and everything.

Behind the church the ground rises, and up there, there was a house, standing by itself and looking rather new. I remembered what Mrs. Parsley had said.

'That must be the getting-well Home for children,' I thought. 'I'd like to see through it. Perhaps we might have some of the children to tea one day, when we're at the farm. The wellest ones; it would be rather fun.'

I'd a good deal to tell the girls about when we got home, hadn't I?

But, after all, we didn't tell them very much that night. For both mums and I were pretty tired, though everything had been so nice. The train going home was a much slower one. When we got near London, it seemed to stop at every station. My goodness! it was tiresome. And we were hungry too, for we'd only had luncheon at Mossmoor; we had to leave too soon for tea, and, besides, mother didn't want to give Mrs. Parsley so much trouble.

Father was going to be late that night. He wasn't coming in to dinner at all. I didn't much mind, for it was all the nicer for me. Mums and I had a sort of picnic dinner—with tea, you know, like what people often have when they arrive very late after a journey. And we talked over about the rooms and everything quietly. The girls were all in bed. We just went in to see them. Hebe was the widest awake; and she was so pleased to hear that perhaps there'd be room for her too at Mossmoor if she was a good girl, and got nearly quite well at Ventnor.

And the next morning we told all of them everything about it. I had to begin at the beginning, and tell about the railway, and how pretty the fields looked, and what a lovely station there was at Fewforest, and the drive in the pony phaeton, and how red the fat boy's ears were; and then about the house and Mrs. Parsley, and the rooms, and everything.

I hadn't time to tell about my walk through the village till luncheon—mum's luncheon, I mean, which is our dinner. And then I began about the nice old church; they were very pleased, Anne most of all. But just as I was telling about the lady I'd seen, and how I couldn't remember how I seemed to know her face, all of a sudden it plumped into my mind. I threw down my knife and fork on my plate. I'm afraid they made a clatter, for mums jumped. It was partly perhaps that I called out so.

'I know who it was. It's that girl—Miss Cross-at-first, you know, Anne,' for that was the name we'd given her, and, indeed, I didn't remember her real name.

'Miss what, Jack?' said mums; while Anne said quietly, 'Oh yes, I know. How funny!'

Then we explained what we meant.

'Judith,' said mother; 'Judith Merthyr. What a very queer name for her,' and she couldn't help laughing. 'It may have been her, for I know she works among poor children. Perhaps she's one of the girls who come down in turns to the Convalescent Home—the ladies Mrs. Parsley told us of. I must ask Dorothea Chasserton; she's sure to know. It would be nice if Judith were there, they say she's such a very kind girl.'

'Yes,' I said, 'we found that out. It's only the way her face is made—she can't help it.'

But somehow we all forgot to ask Cousin Dorothea. For one thing, there soon began to be a good deal of bustle getting ready to go away, for with this horrid whooping-cough nurse and Rowley had been so extra busy that there was a lot of sewing to do. Not for me, of course. My sailor suits all come from the man at Devonport, and, except for darning my stockings, I don't think I give much mending to do. But of course girls are always wanting things made for them at home. Then to add to all the fuss, gran took it into his head to come back all of a sudden. Mother hadn't counted on his coming at all till after she'd got back from Ventnor with Hebe, and by then she thought if Hebe was well enough to be with the rest of us at Mossmoor, she herself would be free to devote herself to gran. She wanted to be extra good to him, you see, to make up for the worry about the diamond ornament.

But gran's often rather changeable; and of course, as mums always says, 'It's his own house: who has a better right to come to it whenever it suits him?'

Only it was rather inconvenient, and mother looked pretty blank the morning she got the letter. He wasn't going to stay long—he had some other visits to pay before he settled down for his usual two months or so of the season in town. He would only stay about ten days.

'Just till we are all leaving,' said poor mums. 'And I know he will want me all day,—and I'd gladly be with him all day—but I am so busy.'

'So am I,' said father, looking rather flabbergasted himself. 'But we must just do the best we can, Valeria. You tell him frankly that you are and must be very busy, and I will tell him that my new book is announced, and yet I have a good deal to do to it still.'

'Yes,' sighed mums,' I must do my best. But it is a pity. He says he is anxious to see the children for himself—to make sure they are coming round satisfactorily. Poor gran, and he doesn't say one word about that unlucky brooch. He has been very good about it.'

'Perhaps he thinks every one concerned has been sufficiently punished about it,' said father.

And Anne, who was down at breakfast with us, grew very red, and looked down at her plate.

Well, gran came, and I think mums managed beautifully, though she must have been pretty tired. We rather went to the wall. That's to say I did, for there was an end of all my nice quiet times with mums—afternoon teas in the little drawing-room, and driving out with her to shop. The doctor ordered drives for the girls now—for Anne, and Serena, and Maud, that's to say,—so they took turns of it in the victoria every fine afternoon. I didn't envy them the days gran went too, for if there's one thing I hate it's the back seat of a victoria, and it gives such a messy look to the turn-out, I think.

Those days I was a good deal with Hebe, reading to her in the afternoons, and sitting with her to make up for mums being so little with her. Gran used to come sometimes, and I had to go on reading aloud just the same, with him listening. I didn't like it at all.

But he was very kind. He never went out scarcely without bringing in some present for some of us, especially Hebe—either fruit, or cakes, not too rich, but very good, or new story-books, or some kind of puzzle or game. He was really very jolly that time.

We were awfully pleased though when the day came at last for us all to start. We were to go first—the three girls, and nurse, and I,—and mums, and Hebe, and Rowley were to go down to Ventnor the next day. Father was to take them, for poor Hebe could scarcely walk yet Gran went off on his visit the afternoon of our day. He said he couldn't leave till he had seen us off, and he actually came to the station with us—he and his man. Fancy that!

And it was rather lucky for us, for he would have us travel first-class, and mums had only meant us to go second. I must say first is ever so much nicer, and it's rubbish of people to say they like second better. It's only silly people, who are ashamed to say they do it for saving reasons. I can't understand that sort of being ashamed.

Then gran tipped the guard, so that he came at every station to ask if we wanted anything. We never did, but it felt rather grand. Altogether, the journey was very nice, and we hadn't time to feel very sad at leaving dear mums and Hebe, though all the way I kept thinking of my last going there with mother.

It was a fine day, though not so bright as the other time. When we got to Fewforest there was a big fly waiting for us, and a spring cart from the farm for the luggage. And no sooner did Serry catch sight of it than she tugged my arm, and said quite loud—

'Is that the red-eared boy, Jack?'

She is so silly, I wonder he didn't hear her.

It was he, sure enough, as red as ever, and grinning now as well, like an old acquaintance. The driver of the fly, on the contrary, was a rather grumpy man. I had been thinking of asking nurse to let me go outside, but when I saw his face I didn't. No chance of him letting me drive part of the way, even though the horse was about a hundred years old, and went jog-jogging along as if it meant to take a month to get to Mossmoor. I can generally tell something about people by the look of their faces.

So we all squashed inside—nurse and us four. It wasn't a very great squash, for the fly was a regular old-fashioned roomy one. Once upon a time I daresay it had been some lady's grand 'coach' in which she drove about paying all her visits. I happened to say this to Anne, and she liked the idea. She said she thought she would write a story, and call it The History of a Chariot. I don't know if she ever has.

When we got to Mossmoor the stupid coachman was going to drive us into the stable-yard, which would quite have stopped the niceness of our first arriving, especially as I caught sight of dear old Mrs. Parsley standing at the front door with her best cap on, all in a flutter to welcome us. (I didn't call her 'dear old Mrs. Parsley' to myself then: it's since I've got to know her. And I couldn't have told it was her best cap; it wasn't for some time that we got to understand her caps. They were like degrees of comparison, both upwards and downwards, for she had always about six going at a time.) So I holloaed out to the driver to stop at the little gate, and he did, though he growled and grumbled. He is so surly; his name's Griffin, and he and the fly belong to the 'Yule Log' at Fewforest, North end. There's no inn at South end. I was only just in time, for you can't turn, farther up the lane, unless you drive on a bit, or turn in the stable-yard. You see it was a good thing for the girls that I'd been there before, and knew all the ins and outs of the place, wasn't it?

It was fun showing them the rooms and everything. And even though I had described them as particularly as I could, they all declared—nurse too—that I hadn't made them out half nice enough. I was glad of that.

We had plenty of time to poke about, because the luggage hadn't yet come. And Mrs. Parsley had tea set out all ready; she wasn't one of those horrid landladies who won't give anything at the first start for fear they should possibly not be paid back for it. I'm sure she never charged anything for the cake she'd made us, and the jam and honey, that first night, though there was precious little over of any of them when we'd finished.



CHAPTER X

A LONG AGO ADVENTURE

We were very busy and happy the next morning getting all our things settled, and making the summer kitchen look as pretty as we could. We had brought one or two folding chairs and some rugs and table-covers to brighten it up, and it did look very nice indeed.

It was a good thing we were taken up that way, for—wasn't it provoking?—that first day it took it into its head to rain! All the morning at least, though it cleared up about our dinner-time. But it was very tiresome, for though it was quite mild, it was of course damp under foot, and nurse wouldn't hear of us going a nice scrambly walk as we had planned. And she would come with us. I daresay she was right, but it was a bore.

'Which way shall we go, Jack?' said Anne, when we were all ready to start and nurse had satisfied herself that the girls had all got their thickest boots on, and waterproofs and umbrellas in case it came on to rain again.

Nurse had been consulting Mrs. Parsley, I'm sure.

'We must keep to the high-road,' she said. 'It dries up very quickly as it's a sandy soil.'

'Anne wasn't asking you, nurse,' said Serry rather pertly. 'She was asking Jack.'

'All the same, Miss Serena, I must do my duty,' said nurse. 'I am in charge of you, and your mamma wouldn't be pleased if I let you all go stravaging over the wet fields to get bad colds and pleurisys and newmens, and what not.'

'Newmens,' said Anne, 'what do you mean?'

But nurse was put out, and wouldn't explain. It wasn't till some time after that we found out she meant that bad kind of cold on your chest that cows have so often, as well as people.

I tried to smooth nurse down, and I frowned at Serry, who was just in a humour to go on setting her up.

It was a pity to start so grumpily on our first walk, but things never do go quite right for long in this world, do they?

'I'll tell you what we can do,' I said; 'we can see the church. It's just a nice little walk by the road from here—you'd like that, wouldn't you, Anne?'

'Yes,' said Anne, 'I like old churches.'

'So do I,' said Maud.

'Are there places you could hide in, in this church,' said Serry, 'like in the old church at Furzely? Whenever I go there I can't help thinking what lovely hide-and-seek we might have there.'

'Miss Serry,' said nurse, quite shocked, 'I think you should have different ideas from that in your mind when you go to church.'

And of course we all thought so too. But it isn't much use taking up anything Serry says, seriously. She is so scatter-brained.

We had a nice enough walk after all. The road was beginning to dry up, except at the side next the wood where the trees dripped on to it, for the trees were really soaking. And we soon got nurse into a good humour again; she's never cross for long. We made plans about all the nice things we'd do, if only the weather would be really fine—tea in the woods and things like that, you know.

'But it's early in the season still, my dears, you must remember,' said nurse. 'It's not often you can plan for much out-of-doors before June is near its end.'

'And then July is always a rainy month, people say,' said Anne. 'I do think England's horrid for the weather being so uncertain.'

'Well, indeed,' said nurse, 'take it all in all, I think I'd rather have our climate up in the north. It's cold, to be sure, a great part of the year, but the summer is summer while it lasts. And then you know where you are; in winter you can hap yourselves up and make the best of it, while here in the south it seems to me that every day you have to think if it's warm or cold, or what it is, all the year round, summer and winter alike.'

I forget if I told you that nurse is Scotch. She hasn't really been in Scotland since she was quite little, but she's very proud of it, and she's very fond of using funny words, like 'stravaging.'

'They say the air here is like Scotland,' I said, 'so fresh and moor-y. So you should like it, nurse. And you know there's a place here that they send little ill children to from London; I can show you the house, we can see it up above when we get to the church.'

And, funnily enough, just as we got close to the village we came upon a little party of the convalescent children going a walk. They were all dressed alike—the girls in brown frocks and red cloaks and brown hats, and the boys in some sort of corduroy. And there was a sort of servanty looking person with them, and also a lady; just for half a moment I wondered if it was Miss Cross-at-first, but it wasn't. This one was quite different; she was short and round-faced, and extremely good-natured looking. She smiled at us as she passed us. And the children all looked very happy.

'You see they've come a walk along the wood like us,' said Maud, 'because I daresay it's wet in their garden too.'

'I'd like to go to see them very much,' said Anne. 'What a pity it isn't Miss Cross-at-first with them! And mums never remembered to write to Cousin Dorothea to ask if it could have been her you saw in the church that day.'

'I'm certain it was,' I said. 'I don't need Cousin Dorothea or anybody to say so. But I'd like to know if she's gone away or if she's coming back again. They say girls—ladies, I mean—take it in turns to come and look after the children.'

'Perhaps Mrs. Parsley could find out for us,' said Anne. 'You know, nurse, we want to have some of the children at tea at the farm before we go. Mother said she daresayed we might.'

'It's time enough, Miss Anne, to talk about what you'll do before you go, seeing as you're scarcely come,' said nurse, rather grumpily. She's not very fond of things to do with poor children; she's always afraid of our catching illnesses. 'And it would be no kindness to ask any other children to come to see you at present. As likely as not they'd be getting the whooping-cough.'

We hadn't thought of that; it was rather a disappointment.

We had got to the church by now, and we all went in. It didn't look quite so pretty as the day I had seen it first, for there was no sunshine coming in through the coloured windows and lighting up the queer old tablets and figures here and there. Still it looked very nice, and Anne and Maud admired it very much. So did Serry, only she said she'd have liked it better with high pews and curtains to draw round the big square ones. Just fancy that!

'You couldn't think it was nicer like that,' I said.

'Not prettier, but there must have been such jolly corners and hiding-places,' said Serena. Her head was full of hiding. 'There'd be nowhere to hide in this church. You'd be seen in a minute.'

'Nobody wants to hide in church,' I said; 'that's not what people come for.'

'They might though,' said Serena; 'that's to say, supposing any one got locked up in a church all night, they'd like to have some comfortable corner to creep into where nobody could get at them.'

'But there'd be nobody to get at them,' said Anne. 'I don't say I'd like at all to be shut up in a church all night; still, the best of it would be you'd know you were safe from anybody.'

Serry didn't seem convinced.

'I don't know,' she said. 'There might be—well, bats and owls and things like that, and then there'd be feelings. You'd be sure to fancy there were people or things there, and it wouldn't be half so frightening if you could get into a pew with a carpet, and make a bed of the cushions and hassocks.'

'Eh,' said nurse all of a sudden, 'you put me in mind, Miss Serry, of an old story my mother told me when I was a child.'

'Oh, do tell it us,' cried Maud.

But nurse said we must wait, of course, till we were out of the church. Nurse has quite proper feelings about churches, though, when she was little, she belonged to the Scotch kirk, you know, which is different. She said she'd tell us the story either on the way home or after tea when we were all sitting together in our kitchen-parlour, for it was too damp an evening for us to go out again.

And at first we thought we'd have the story on the way home, but then we settled we'd wait till the evening. For there were plenty of things to amuse us going home; I had to show them the post office and the shops—we went farther down the village on purpose,—and I don't think stories are ever quite so nice when people are walking as when they're sitting still.

We all felt quite hungry when we got back to the farm, and we were very glad that it was nearly tea time. Nurse was very pleased, for Anne and Maud had never got back their good appetites since they'd been ill, though Serry had never lost hers all through—I don't much think anything would make Serry lose her good appetite,—and of course I'd kept all right.

After tea we helped nurse to clear away. We always did that at Mossmoor, for you see mums had promised Mrs. Parsley that we should give as little trouble as possible,—it wasn't as if she had been a lodging-house keeper, and she had only one servant who was rather rough and clumsy. We liked doing it too, and dear Mrs. Parsley was even better than her word about making us as comfortable as she possibly could. There was scarcely a day that she didn't do something 'extra' to please us. This very evening she had made us some lovely kind of scones for tea. She said they were a kind she had learnt to make up in the north, and she 'wanted to make us feel at home; it must be a bit lonely just at first, and such a wet day to begin.'

Wasn't it sweet of her?

Well, as I said, we did justice to the scones, and when tea was over and all nicely tidied up, we brought our chairs near the fire. For it was chilly after the rain, and we were glad of a fire. And nurse got out her knitting—nurse has always got socks for me or stockings for the girls on hand,—and we began to feel very jolly. We had felt a very little lonely, perhaps almost an atom homesick, I think, with the dull morning and the strangeness and the not having father and mother and Hebe, even though everything was so nice.

'Now for your story, nurse,' said I. 'I hope it's been growing into a very big one all this time we've been waiting for it.'

'No, indeed, Master Jack,' said nurse, 'it's nothing of the kind. It's scarce to be called a story at all, and but little worth listening to.'

But we made her tell it all the same. I'm not going to try to write it in Scotch words, for I don't know Scotch a bit, and I'm not sure that nurse knows much either, as she's been in England ever since she was very young. So I'll just tell it straight off; anyway it'll be the sense of what she said, though she did put in some extra Scotch words. I think she's rather proud when we have to ask her to explain them.

NURSE'S STORY.

'It was my mother that told it me,' said nurse, 'for it happened to herself when she was a little girl. She lived at home with her father and mother and brothers in a good-sized cottage on the Muirness estate, for my grandfather was one of the head men on the place, which belonged to old Sir Patrick Muir. They were a good way—five miles or so—from even a village, and I daresay double as far from the nearest town, which was only a small one. But in those days people were content with stay-at-home lives, and they didn't feel dull or lonely even in very out-of-the-way places. It is a good while ago since my mother was a child. She was not young when she married, and she was nearly forty when I was born, and I'm getting on for that myself now. My grandmother had been rather above my grandfather, for she was the daughter of a well-to-do man who farmed his own land. When my mother was a child these old folk were still living, and their little place was very near Muirness; indeed, I believe it was bought several years ago by Sir Herbert, old Sir Patrick's grandson, and now belongs to the big estate.

'My mother was a great favourite with her grandfather and grandmother, for she was the only granddaughter, all the others being boys. She used often to go over to Oldbiggins Farm to stay for a day or two; and her grandmother was very fond of having her from a Saturday to a Monday to take her to church with them on Sunday, and send her back early on Monday morning in time to go to school. My mother didn't care for these visits as much as for week-day ones, for her grandmother used to take her to church on Sunday morning and keep her there straight on through the afternoon service too, which was really too much for a child. Her mother was not so strict, and understood better about children's feelings; and she used always to let mother and her brothers go home after the morning service, even if she stayed on for the afternoon herself. It was five miles away, so it was a long walk, but the old people used to drive in a cart there and back; for if they hadn't done so, they wouldn't have been able to go to church at all.

'One Saturday afternoon—it was late in the autumn—mother's grandmother sent over to say that she wanted Maggie, that was mother's name, to come to stay till Monday, and she should drive to church and back with her on the Sunday—the 'Sabbath-day' was what they called it always. Maggie didn't want much to go, but her mother didn't like to refuse; the old people were kind, and it wouldn't do to vex them. So the child was sent off. She was about eight years old.

'"Mayn't I come home with my brothers after the morning church is done?" she said. But her mother shook her head. For some reason they were not going till the afternoon. I think somebody was ill.

'"If I can get in the afternoon, I'll look out for you, and you can come home with me then, dearie," she said. "Tell your grandmother I'd like to have you back to-morrow evening if she doesn't mind."

'The Sunday evenings at Oldbiggins were rather hard upon a child too, for, on the top of the two long services, the old grandfather always read out a very long sermon, difficult for any one to understand, as he read very feebly, and the words were often puzzling.



'So, with the hope of getting home again before the Sunday evening, little Maggie started. She was a gentle, quiet child, and the old people had no idea but that she was quite happy and liked the long hours in the church as much as they did. She went to church alone with her grandmother and the farm-man who drove the cart, and they took with them a packet of bread-and-butter, or bread-and-jam maybe—what was called "a piece"—to eat outside the church between the two services. There was only an hour between them. Maggie looked out for her own people before she and her grandmother went back into the church again, but they must have been a little late, and the old lady liked to be in her place in good time, so the child did not see them. But she thought to herself she'd be sure to meet them after church, and this thought kept her quiet, though she couldn't possibly get a glimpse of them from her corner of the high pew, even if she had dared to look about. She must have been very tired, and she had cried in bed the night before, and I daresay the cold air outside made it feel warm in the church, anyway this was what happened. The poor little thing fell fast asleep. And her grandmother, who was very blind except with her glasses on—and she always took them off and put them away when the last psalm had been sung—went quietly out of the pew without a notion but that the child was beside her.

'When Maggie woke it was quite dark, the church had been shut up ever so long; there was no evening service. At first she thought she was in bed, and that the clothes had tumbled off her, then feeling about, she found she had her frock and cape and bonnet on, and everything near her was hard and cold, not like bed at all. And by bits it all came back to her mind—her last waking thoughts in church, and how she was hoping to see her mother,—and she began to take in where she was. I've always thought it was really dreadful for her, and she must have been a brave, sensible child— I know she grew up a brave, sensible woman. For, though she couldn't help crying at first with loneliness and cold and the queer sort of fear, she soon settled to do the best she could. There was some moonlight coming in at one window, though not much, but enough to make her see where the pulpit was, and up into the pulpit Maggie climbed, because she had an idea she'd be safer there; and it certainly was warmer, for it was a sort of little box with a door to it, and there were one or two stools and cushions and some red cloth hanging round the top, which Miss Maggie ventured to pull down and wrap round her. And there she composed herself to sleep, and sleep she did, in spite of her loneliness and hunger—oh, I forgot to say she found a wee bit of her "piece" still in her pocket,—till the sunshine woke her up the next morning, for luckily it was a bright mild day. Then down she came, and walked up and down the aisles as fast as she dared, considering it was a church, to get her cramped legs warm again, and just as she was thinking what she was to do to get out, the door opened, to her delight, and in came the man who had care of the church—what we call a verger—followed by the old body who cleaned and swept it.

'They were astonished, as you can fancy; such a thing had never happened before within the memory of man.

'Old Peter took her off with him to his cottage, and his wife gave her some hot breakfast, and then he borrowed a cart and drove Maggie home—straight home to Muirness, not to Oldbiggins. It was home Maggie wanted to go, you may be sure, and when Peter heard the story, he declared her granny deserved a good fright for not looking after her better.

"P'raps she thought I'd run off to mother and the boys," said Maggie.

'And that was just what it turned out to be.

'The old lady, instead of being frightened, was very angry. She had stayed talking to some friend at the church door, and somehow her daughter and the boys had fancied she and Maggie had driven off, not seeing them about. Maggie's mother was in a hurry to get home to the one that was ill, and just thought the little girl had gone back quietly with her grandmother till the next morning. And when the granny had missed the child, she thought Maggie had run off to her mother—for some one called out that Mistress Gray and her children had driven off,—and was too offended to send to Muirness to ask!

'And at home they hadn't missed her of course. So, after all, Maggie wasn't made much of a heroine of, for all she'd been so brave and sensible.

'But I'm sure she never minded that, so glad was she to be in her own dear home again, safe and sound. And you may be sure her mother petted her enough to make up all she could for the poor little thing's disagreeable adventure. It was talked of through the country-side for many a day after that. Maybe it is still.'

'And I hope they never let her go back to that horrid old grandmother again,' said Anne.

'Nay, my dear, she wasn't so bad as that. But old people have their ways.'

'I think our gran is much nicer than that,' said Maud in her clear little voice.

And I'm sure we all agreed with her.

But we all thanked nurse very nicely for telling us the story, which was really very interesting.

And it gave us a good deal to talk about.



CHAPTER XI

MISCHIEF IN THE AIR

Yes, it gave us a good deal to talk about. Stories that do that are much the nicest; they seem to make themselves over and over, and to last so long. We talked for some days after that, about what we'd each of us do if we were locked up all night alone in a church, and we made ever so many plans. And the next Sunday—that was our first one at Mossmoor,—when we all came home from church and were at dinner, Serena astonished us very much, when nurse said she'd been a very good girl, for she's generally a dreadful fidget, by saying quite coolly—

'Oh, I didn't mind the sermon a bit to-day, though it was very long. For I was settling all the time what I'd do if I was like Maggie in that church. And I know quite well, only I won't tell any of you. So if ever I'm lost on a Sunday you'll have a nice hunt.'

She tossed back her head the way she does when she means to be aggravating.

'You silly girl,' said Maud in her superior way, 'you couldn't hide in that church not to be found. You're so boasty. And if you did, there'd be no fun in it.'

Serry gave another toss, and a particular sort of a smile. That smile meant mischief.

'Miss Serena's certainly very clever at hiding places,' said nurse. 'But there couldn't be very much cleverness wanted to hide in a church; it's not like finding out queer places you'd never think of in a house. Now, I daresay, Miss Serry, if it came a very wet day again while we're here and Mrs. Parsley let you have a good game, as I've no doubt she would, I daresay you'd keep us hunting like anything.'

'I daresay I could,' said Serry.

But I knew by her voice that she knew that nurse was speaking that way on purpose to put hiding in the church out of her head. For, as I've said, Serry's very queer; for all she's so changeable and flighty, there are times that if she takes up a thing, nothing will get it from her—make her drop it, I mean,—till she's done it. And she'd gone on so about hiding in the church that I think nurse was a little uncomfortable. Perhaps she began to wish she hadn't told us the story of her mother, but I wouldn't say so, for I didn't want to vex her. She'd been really so very kind.

After that Sunday, however, for some weeks nothing more was said about it, and we left off talking of the Maggie story. We had so many other things to do and to speak about. The weather got all right again, even better than before, for every day now was getting us nearer and nearer into the real summer; though, of course, even in the middle of summer there do come cold wet bits, just like our first day at Mossmoor. But for some time we had nothing but lovely weather.

It's a very drying soil all about Fewforest; after two or three fine days, even in the woods, the ground is so dry that you'd think it hadn't rained since the world was made. It's partly with the trees being mostly firs which are so neat and bare low down—no mess of undergrowth about them. And the soil is very nice, so beautifully clean and crunchy to walk on, for it's made of the pricks that fall off the firs, in great part. It's perfectly splendid to lie on—springy and yielding and not a bit dirty—your things don't get soiled in the least.

They say, too, that the scent or breath of pines and firs—I think it's rather nice to think it's the sweet breath of the trees, don't you?—is awfully good for coughs or illnesses to do with coughs. So it suited us very well indeed to spend a great part of our time in the woods. And certainly the girls' coughs soon went quite away. I was glad. I really could hardly help hitting them sometimes when they would go on barking and whooping, even though I suppose they couldn't stop it. They still coughed a little if they ran too fast, or if they got excited or angry. I do believe Serry pretended it sometimes just to be aggravating, for she was in rather an aggravating humour at that time. I think it was partly from not having Hebe, who has such a good way with her, and as Anne and Maud always stick together, you see Serena was rather left to me, and I don't pretend to have a good way with her at all, she makes me so angry. Though we get on a good deal better now than we did then.

Still, on the whole, we were very happy indeed. We did a little lessons—at least Anne and I did regularly. Miss Stirling had set me some Latin and French, and Anne didn't want to get behind me in Latin, so she did it with me, and she was very good in helping me with my French, for she's much farther on than me in French.

That was in the mornings, for an hour or so. Then we used to go what nurse calls a 'good bracing walk,' right over the heath that edges the woods, for two or three miles sometimes. We used to come in for dinner pretty hungry, I can tell you. But Mrs. Parsley didn't mind how much she had to cook for us. She was as pleased as if you'd given her a present when nurse said she never had known our appetites so good.

Sometimes we met the getting-well children from the Home. But I rather fancy the people there had heard about the whooping-cough; for though the young lady who was with them smiled at us very nicely always, she rather shoo'd them away from us. And it was always the same round-faced, beamy-looking girl—not Miss Cross-at-first, certainly.

Then in the afternoons we mostly played or sat about the woods, coming in for tea, and sometimes, when it was very fine and mild, nurse let us go out again a little after tea. But if it was the least chilly or windy or anything, she wouldn't let the girls go out, and then we sat all together playing games, or now and then telling stories till bed-time. Very often dear Mrs. Parsley would come in, and we always made her sit down and talk to us. And sometimes I'd go out a stroll by myself in the evening—towards the village generally, for there was often a letter to post or some little message for nurse to the shop. And then I got another reason for walking that way in the evening, which I'll tell you about directly.

We had been five weeks at the farm when one day we got very jolly news from mums. The news had been pretty jolly all the time; Hebe had gone on getting better, though the doctor at Ventnor had thought her very weak at first, and so she and mums had stayed on longer than they'd expected they would. But this letter told that they had really fixed a day for coming back to London, and that the nice Ventnor doctor said no air could be better for Hebe now than Fewforest, and so mums was going to bring her down the very next Friday to be with us for the last three weeks. Mums was coming herself too, to stay from Friday to Monday, for father had to be away with gran those two days. Gran was at Brighton, I think, but he was coming back now mums would be there. There was a postscript to the letter—it was to Anne,—in which mums said she might perhaps want nurse to come up to London for a few hours to see about clothes or something. 'If I do,' she wrote, 'do you think I can trust you and Jack to take care of the two little ones? I am sure Mrs. Parsley would be most kind, but of course I do not want to give her more trouble than we can help.'

'Oh,' said Serena, when Anne had read all that aloud—I wished she had stopped before the postscript—'that would be fun. We'd lead old Jack a dance wouldn't we, Maud? As for Anne, we'd find her a new book, and then she wouldn't trouble us.'

Maud looked at her with scorn, but would not condescend to speak. I do believe from that moment Serry settled to play some kind of trick if we were left alone. But when I said to Anne that I hoped to goodness we shouldn't be left in charge of Serry, she only said it would be all right; Serry made herself out worse than she was, and so on. Anne is so easygoing.

Now I must tell you why I liked strolling down to the church in the evenings. It only began the week before Hebe and mums were to come. I happened to have gone to the village rather late with a letter, and, coming back, I noticed that there was some light in the church, even though it wasn't the time for any service. And, standing still for a moment, suddenly I heard the organ begin. Some one was playing it. The door was a little open, and I went inside the porch and found I could hear quite well. It was beautiful, far nicer than on Sundays, and after a while I heard singing too. Such lovely singing—it was a woman's voice—and she sang some of the things I liked best, and I stayed there listening as long as I dared. The next evening I couldn't come, but the one after that I did, and she was there again, and I listened ever so long. After that I came whenever I could; sometimes she was there and sometimes not,—it was rather fun wondering if she would be. I told Anne about it, and she said she'd like awfully to come with me one evening, but we didn't know how to manage it, for we really couldn't tell Serry. She'd have teased so to come too, and she'd have spoilt it all with her fidgeting, and if we'd told nurse and asked her to let us go without the little ones, Serry would have made some sort of a fuss I'm sure. So I just kept on going whenever I could, though very often there was no music. And I promised Anne that the first chance I could see I'd take her too.

Mums wrote for nurse to go up to London on the Thursday—just the day before she and Hebe were coming. Nurse was to go up by an afternoon train, and she'd get back about nine in the evening, mums wrote; and we—Anne and I—might help to put the little ones to bed, and then we might sit up till nurse came back. There was really nothing to be anxious about, Mrs. Parsley was so kind, and really we were old enough to be left an hour or two by ourselves. Still nurse seemed a little uneasy. I'm sure it was all about Serena. Anne and I promised her we'd be awfully careful and good.

'I know I can depend upon you, Master Jack,' said nurse. We were alone at the time—she and I—'and really Miss Anne is wonderfully improved. Since the diamond ornament was lost, and it being partly through her fault, she's hardly like the same young lady. It's an ill wind that does nobody any good, they say; perhaps Miss Serry will take a sensible turn after a while.'