The Boys and I: A Child's Story for Children

I got really alarmed at that. Supposing he were to call a policeman and send us home with him, as I had heard was sometimes done in London with lost or strayed children! What a terrible fuss it would make.

"Oh, no," I said eagerly. "We've come such a little way. It was only to post a letter, but I have no stamp. Please I think we'd better go and try to find the post-office."

I took tight hold of the boys' hand again, and we were turning to go, when our new friend stopped us.

"Stay," he said, "if it is only a stamp for a letter that you want, I can easily give you one."

He turned towards the man who was writing at the desk place and said something quickly, and the man held out a stamp which the gentleman handed to me.

"Shall I put it on the letter for you?" he asked.

"Oh no, thank you," I said, in a great hurry to get away now that I had actually the precious stamp in my possession. "I can put it on quite well. Here is the penny, and thank you very much for the stamp."

He took the penny quite seriously. I was glad of that, and liked him the better for it. Had he refused it I should have been really offended.

"And what will you do with the letter now?" he said. "Shall you not have still to go to the post-office to put it in?"

"Oh no," I said, "there is a pillar-post quite near our house."

"And you are sure you know your way?" he said as he opened the shop-door for us. "What is the name of the street where you live?"

I hesitated. Curiously enough I had never heard the name of the street where Uncle Geoff lived—I looked at Tom and Tom looked at me. He did not know it either.

"I don't know the name of the street," I said, "but I am sure we can find the way. Can't we, Tom?"

"Oh yes, I am sure we can. We live at our uncle's, Dr. Gower's," added Tom, for which I frowned at him.

"At Dr. Gower's," repeated the chemist with surprise. "Dear me— I don't think your uncle would be pleased if he knew you were out alone. However, as you say, it is very near—and I shouldn't like to get them scolded, poor little things," he added to himself. "I can tell you the name of the street—it is —— Street—remember that, and now run home as fast as you can. First turn to the right."

We thanked him again and ran off.

CHAPTER IX.

We were glad to get out of the great crowded, brightly-lighted street, though had we been less in a hurry to get home, we should have greatly enjoyed standing and looking in at the shop-windows, more even than by daylight, and as it was, I was obliged two or three times to tug pretty hard at Tom and Racey to get them away from some very tempting one. At last however—it did seem as if we had been in the big street rather longer turning back from the chemist's than going there—afterwards I remembered this—at last we found ourselves in what we believed to be the same, rather narrow, darkish street where we had passed the pillar-post.

"Which side is the pillar?" I said to Tom. "I'm sure it was on this side and now I don't see it."

Tom stared about him.

"It must be a little further on," he said.

But further on it was not to be seen, and we began to feel perfectly puzzled. The street was quite a short one—we soon came to the end, where, right and left, it ran into a wider one, quiet and rather dark too—that is to say, compared with the great street of shops where we had just been. We stood at the corner looking about us—

"This is our street—it must be," I said; "but what can have become of the letter-box in the little street?"

Tom could say nothing, he was as puzzled as I. We walked on slowly, more because we did not know what else to do, than for any other reason. Going home without posting the letter, for which we had run such risks, was not to be thought of. Suddenly Tom gave a little scream, and would have darted across the street had I not kept tight hold of him.

"Tom, what is the matter? Where are you going?" I said.

Tom wriggled and pulled.

"Let me go, Audrey," he said. "There's one—don't you see—across the street. Let me go, to be sure it's a proper one like the other."

"One" meant another pillar-post. I wouldn't let go of Tom, but we all went across together to examine it. It was just like the one that had suddenly disappeared from the little street, and it took a great weight off me when I had dropped my letter into it.

"It is just as if they had wheeled it across from the street opposite—isn't it?" I said to Tom.

But as there were no wheels, and as the pillar seemed stuck in the ground as firm as a rock, we could not explain the mystery.

"Now," said I, "let's run across again and find our house. It must be just about opposite."

We crossed the street and went along slowly, peeping at every house we passed in search of some sign by which we would know it. We had left the door the tiniest little bit ajar you will remember—and two or three times when we saw a house which we fancied looked just like Uncle Geoff's, we went up the steps and gently pushed to see if the door was open. But no—none of them were, and beginning to be really frightened we returned to the pavement and considered what we should do.

"I don't understand it," I said, "we must have passed it. It wasn't above five or six houses from the street we turned, down, where the pillar-post was."

"But, Audrey," said Tom, "p'raps we came up another street by mistake, 'cause you know we couldn't find the pillar coming back. Let's go back a little and see if we don't come to the street where it is, and then we'll know."

It seemed the only thing to do—it was quite, quite dark of course by now—the only light was from the gas-lamps, which in this street did not seem very bright. It was very cold—we were all three beginning to shiver, because, you see, running out as we thought just for five minutes we had not wrapped up very warmly. It was worst for the boys, who had nothing besides the sailor suits they always wore, except their comforters and caps, though I had my jacket. And to add to our troubles it began to rain, a miserable, fine, cold rain, which seemed to freeze as well as to wet us. I was so unhappy that it was all I could do not to cry.

"The boys will get cold," I said to myself. "And mother said we must be very careful of cold for Tom this winter as he had the measles so badly. Oh dear, what shall we do! If I could see anybody, I would ask them to help us to find the way back to Uncle Geoff's."

But just then there was no one in sight, and I was thinking whether it would not be best to try to find our way back to the friendly chemist and ask him to help us, when Tom called out suddenly:

"Audrey, we've got on the wrong side of the street. Look, the next house is the one with what Racey calls an air-garden."

I looked and saw the little glass conservatory he pointed out. It belonged to the house next to the one we were passing. I didn't feel satisfied— I couldn't see how we could have got on the wrong side of the street, for we had certainly kept in a right direction, but Tom was so sure, I didn't like to contradict him. And he pulled Racey and me across the street almost before I had time to consider.

"Our house is almost opposite the one with the air-garden," he said, "just a little bit further along. Yes, this one must be it." He hurried us up the steps and when we got to the front door gave it a little push. It yielded—it was open.

"You see," said Tom triumphantly, "you see I was right, Audrey."

But almost before he had said the words, Racey pulled us back.

"This idn't our house," he said, "it tannot be. Look, Audrey; look, Tom, this house has a' air-garden too."

He pointed above our heads, and looking up, Tom and I saw what in our hurried crossing the street we had not noticed—there was a conservatory on the first floor just like the one opposite!

"Come back, come back," I said. "This isn't our house. Perhaps the people will be angry with us for pushing the door open."

But it was too late—the door had been a little open before we touched it, for there were people standing in the hall just inside, and one of them, an errand boy, was coming out, when the push Tom had given caught their attention. The door was pulled wide open from the inside and we saw plainly right into the brightly-lighted hall. A man-servant came forward to see who we were—or what we were doing.

"Now get off the steps you there," he said roughly. "My lady can't have beggars loitering about."

Frightened as we were, Tom's indignation could not be kept down.

"We're not beggars, you rude man," he cried, "we thought this was our house, and—and—" he could say no more, poor little boy—for all his manliness he was only a very little boy, you know—the tears would not be kept back any longer, he burst out sobbing, and immediately he heard Tom's crying Racey of course began too. I did not know what to do— I threw my arms round them and tried to comfort them. "Don't cry, dears," I said, "we'll go back to the chemist's, and he'll show us the way home. And nobody shall scold you, I don't care what they say to me."

The man-servant was still standing holding the door; he seemed on the point of shutting it, but I suppose something in our way of speaking, though he could not clearly see how we were dressed, had made him begin to think he had been mistaken, and he stared at us curiously. I think too, for he wasn't an unkind man, he felt sorry to hear the boys crying so. The bustle on the steps caught the attention of the other person in the hall—who had been speaking to the errand-boy when we came up, though we had not noticed her. A voice, which even at that moment I fancied I had heard before, stopped us as we were turning away.

"What is the matter, James?" it said. "Is it some poor children on the steps? Don't be rough to them. I'd like to see what they want."

Then she came forward and stood right in our sight, though even now she couldn't see us well, as we were outside in the dark, you know. We all looked at her, and for a minute we felt too surprised to speak. It was the young lady in the black dress with the pretty goldy hair that had come one day to our house. We all knew her again—she looked sweeter and prettier than ever, with a nice grave sort of kindness in her face that I think children love even more than smiles and merriness. We all knew her again, but Racey was the first to speak. He pulled himself out of my arms—I didn't hold him back—and he rushed to the young lady and caught hold of her almost as if she had been mother.

"Oh please, please take care of us," he cried, hiding his fair, curly head in her black skirt, "we're lostened. Muzzie's done away, you know, and we don't like being at London at all."

The young lady for half a moment looked perfectly puzzled. Then a light broke over her face. She lifted Racey up in her arms, and pressing her face against his in a sort of kissing way, just almost as mother herself would have done, she came forward quite close to Tom and me, still on the steps in the rain, and spoke to us.

"My poor little people," she said, "you must be quite wet. I know who you are— I remember. Come in—come in out of the cold, and tell me all about it."

My first wish was just to beg her to tell us the way to Uncle Geoff's house and to hurry off as fast as we could. I was beginning to be so terribly frightened as to what would happen when we did get back. But her voice was so kind, and it was so cold outside, and Racey was clinging to her so—it looked, too, so warm and comfortable inside the nice, bright house, that I could not help going in. Tom would have pulled me in, I think, had I refused. He was still sobbing, but once we got inside the hall he began fishing in his pocket till he got out his handkerchief and scrubbed at his eyes before he would look up at the young lady at all. Nothing would take away Tom's dislike to be seen crying.

"James," said the young lady, "open the library door."

James, who had become particularly meek—I suppose he was rather ashamed of having taken us for little beggars, now that he saw the young lady knew us—did as she told him. And still carrying Racey in her arms Miss Goldy-hair (I think I told you that Tom and I called her that to ourselves after the day she had been at our house?) led the way into the library where she had been sitting when she was called to speak to the message boy in the hall. For there were books and some pretty work on the table, and a little tray with two or three cups and saucers and a plate with cake—all very nice and neat-looking—the sort of way mother had things at home. And the fire was burning brightly. It was a nice room, though rather grave-looking, for there were books all round and round the walls instead of paper.

The first thing she did—Miss Goldy-hair, I mean—was to draw us near to the fire. She put Racey down on a low chair that was standing there and began feeling us to see if we were very wet.

"Not so very bad," she said, smiling for the first time. "Audrey—are you surprised I remember your name?—take off your jacket, dear. I don't think the boys will get any harm, this rough serge throws off the rain. Now—" when we were all settled so as to get nice and warm—"now, who is going to tell me all about it? My little fellow," she added, turning to Tom, who was still shaking with sobs, partly I think because of the terrible way he was trying to force them down and to scrub his eyes dry, "my little man, don't look so unhappy," she put her arm round him as she spoke, "I'm sure we shall be able to put it all right."

"It's not all that," I said, "it's partly that he can't bear you to see him crying, Miss Goldy-hair. He thinks it's like a baby."

A different sort of smile came into her face for a moment, a smile of fun— I wondered a little what it was. It wasn't till she told me afterwards that I understood how funny our name for her must have sounded, for I said it quite without thinking.

"Oh no," she said. "I didn't think that at all, my boy. Here, dear, take a little drink of this tea." She got up and poured some out. "It's still hot, and that will help to make the sobs go away."

"Tom had the measles worse than me," I said, "and he's not been so strong since," for though she said she didn't think him a bit like a baby, I couldn't bear it for him that he shouldn't be thought brave, when really he was.

"Ah!" she said quickly, "then we must take great care of him."

She looked at him anxiously while he drank the hot tea.

"I know a great deal about children," she said to me, nodding her head and smiling again. "Some day I'll show you what a number I have to help to take care of. But now, little Audrey, what were you three doing out in the street by yourselves in the dark and the rain?"

"We came out to post a letter," I said; "I didn't want anybody to know about it for perhaps they wouldn't have sent it. So Mrs. Partridge was out, and we were in the dining-room, and Uncle Geoff was out, and Sarah was busy sewing and we thought nobody would know, and Tom wanted to go alone, but I thought he'd get lost and Racey wouldn't stay alone, so we all came. And we lost the way, and we thought this was our house because it was opposite one with an air-garden and we didn't see it couldn't be ours because it had an air-garden too."

I stopped for a minute out of breath.

"It was me that sawed the air-garden wurst," said Racey. He spoke with great self-satisfaction. There he sat as comfortable as could be—he seemed to think he had got to an end of all his troubles and to have no intention of moving from where he was.

The young lady glanced at him with her kind eyes, and then turned again to me. She was evidently rather puzzled, but very patient, so it was not difficult to tell her everything. Indeed I couldn't have helped telling her everything. She had a way of making you feel she was strong and you might trust her and that she could put things right, even though she was so soft and kind and like a pretty wavy sort of tree—not a bit hard and rough.

Her face looked a little grave as well as puzzled while I was speaking. I don't think she liked what I said about not wanting them to know. Her face and eyes looked as if she had never hidden anything in her life.

"And what was the letter, Audrey? And whom was it to?"

"It was to Pierson—that's our old nurse," I said. I hesitated a little and Miss Goldy-hair noticed it.

"And what was it about?" she said, very kindly still, but yet in a way that I couldn't help answering.

"It was to tell her how unhappy we were," I said in a low voice, "and to tell her that I was going to try to go to her with the boys—to take them away from Uncle Geoff's, because Mrs. Partridge is so horrid and she makes Uncle Geoff think we're always being naughty. And mother said I was to make the boys happy while she's so far away, and I can't. And I can't make them good either—we're getting into quarrelling ways already. I'm sure we'd be better with Pierson in the country."

"Where does Pierson live?" asked the young lady.

"At a village called Cray—it's near Copple—Copple— I forget the name, but I've got it written down. You won't tell Uncle Geoff?" I added anxiously.

"No," said Miss Goldy-hair, "not without your leave. But that reminds me—won't your uncle be frightened about you all this time?"

"He won't be in till late," I said. "But Sarah will be frightened—and oh! I'm so afraid Mrs. Partridge will be coming back. Oh! hadn't we better go now if you'll tell us the way. It's in this street, isn't it?"

"No, dear," said the young lady—and I was so glad she called me "dear." I had been afraid she wouldn't like me any more when she knew what I had been thinking of doing. "No, dear," she said, "you've got into another street altogether—that's why you were so puzzled. This street is very like the one you live in and they run parallel, if you know what that means."

"I wish it was this street," I said.

"And so do I," said Tom.

"Why?" asked Miss Goldy-hair.

"Because we'd like to be near you," we both said, pressing close to her. "You're like mother."

The tears came into Miss Goldy-hair's eyes—they really did—but she smiled too.

"And what do you say, my little man?" she said to Racey.

Racey was still reposing most comfortably in his big chair.

"I'll stay here," he said, "if Audrey and Tom can stay too. And I'd like 'tawberry jam for tea."

The young lady smiled again.

"I'd like to keep you," she said, "but think how frightened poor Sarah will be—and your uncle when he comes in."

Tom and I looked at each other. We were so glad she didn't say, "Think how frightened poor Mrs. Partridge will be."

"I think the best thing will be for me to take you home," she went on. "Though it isn't in this street it's very near. Not three minutes' walk. Yes," she said, more as if speaking to herself than to us, "that will be best—for me to take them alone."

She rang the bell, and James appeared.

"James," she said, "I am going out for a few minutes. When Miss Arbour comes in tell her I shall not be long. I am sure to be back by dinner-time."

Then Miss Goldy-hair went away for a minute or two and returned wrapped up in a big cloak, and with a couple of little jackets which she put on Tom and Racey.

"These are some of my children's jackets," she said. Tom and Racey looked at them curiously. It was queer that Miss Goldy-hair's children's cloaks should just fit them.

"They're just right for us," said Tom.

"Yes," she said, "I have several sizes of them. I've been getting them ready for my children for this cold weather."

"Are they here?" said Tom.

"Who?" said Miss Goldy-hair.

"Your childrens," said Tom.

Miss Goldy-hair shook her head.

"No," she replied. "They're in a much bigger house than this. There wouldn't be room for them here."

Then seeing that Tom, and I too, I dare say—not Racey, he wouldn't have been surprised if Miss Goldy-hair had said she had a hundred children; he never was surprised at anything when he was a little boy. If he had heard his toy-horses talking in their stables some day, I don't believe he'd have been startled—but seeing that Tom and I looked puzzled she explained what she meant to us.

"It is poor children I mean," she said. "Some kind ladies have made a nice home for poor orphan children who have no homes of their own, and as I have not any one of my own to take care of I have a great deal of time. So I go to see these poor children very often to help to teach them and make them happy, and sometimes when they are ill to help to nurse them. I like going to see them very much."

Tom looked rather pleased when he heard that Miss Goldy-hair meant poor children. I think he was a little inclined to be jealous before he heard that.

"But it isn't as nice as if you had children of your own in your own house—like mother has us. It isn't as nice as if we were your children," said Tom.

Miss Goldy-hair smiled.

"No," she said, "I don't think it is."

We were in the street by this time, walking along pretty quickly, for it was still raining a little and very cold. But we didn't mind it. Miss Goldy-hair knew the way so well. She turned down one or two small side streets, and then in a minute we found ourselves at Uncle Geoff's.

Walking along with her we had felt so well taken care of that we had almost forgotten our fears of what might meet us at home. But now, actually on the door-steps, they returned.

"Don't ring, Miss Goldy-hair, please," I said. "Let's see first if the door is still open."

Strange to say it was! After all, though it has taken so long to tell, not more than three-quarters of an hour had passed since we went out, and it was a quiet time of evening. No one had happened to ring at the bell. But as we pushed open the door, the first thing we saw was Sarah—flying down-stairs in a terrible fright, as white as a sheet and looking nearly out of her mind. She had missed us out of the dining-room and had rushed up to the nursery to look for us, and not finding us there did not know what to think.

She gave a sort of scream when she saw us.

"Oh dear! oh dear!" she cried. "Where have you been? Oh, Miss Audrey, how could you! Oh dear! you have frightened me so."

But before we said anything Tom and I ran forward with the same question.

"Has Mrs. Partridge come in?" and oh! how thankful we were when Sarah shook her head.

"Thank goodness, no!" she said.

Then Miss Goldy-hair came forward. She had been writing a few words in pencil on a card, and in her excitement, Sarah had hardly noticed her.

"Will you give this to Dr. Gower when he comes in?" said Miss Goldy-hair, and Sarah made a little curtsey and begged her pardon for not having seen her.

"Dr. Gower knows me," she said to Sarah; "but please do not say anything to him about my having brought the children home, as I would rather explain it myself."

"Will you turn early, kite early?" Racey begged.

"Yes, that I can promise you," she answered.

But I too had some last words.

"Miss Goldy-hair," I said, "you told me you wouldn't tell Uncle Geoff?"

"Not without your leave, dear, I said," she replied. "But don't you think it would be better to tell him? Won't you trust me to tell him?"

"But not Mrs. Partridge," I pleaded.

"No, I don't think we need tell Mrs. Partridge."

"Well, then I'll let you tell Uncle Geoff, and if he writes to mother that we're naughty you'll write too, won't you?"

"Wait till to-morrow and we'll talk it all over. Can't you trust me, Audrey?"

She bent down and looked in my face. I looked at her for a minute without speaking. I liked to be sure before I said a thing, always. So I looked right into her face, but I won't tell you what I thought, because somebody that's going to read this over might be vexed. And all I said was, "Yes, Miss Goldy-hair."

CHAPTER X.

I woke very early the next morning. I woke with that queer feeling that everybody knows, of something having happened. And before I was awake enough in my mind even to get a distinct thought of what it was that had happened, I yet had a feeling that it was something pleasant. For the first time since mother had gone I woke without that terrible feeling of loneliness that had been getting worse and worse every day.

As usual I glanced over at Tom's bed to see if he was still asleep.

"Tom," I said softly, "are you awake?"

"Yes," said Tom, all in a minute, as if he had been awake some time.

It was all clear in my head now—about our losing our way and finding Miss Goldy-hair and the letter to Pierson, and Miss Goldy-hair, promising to invite us to go and see her, and everything.

"Tom," I said, "we can't go to Pierson now. I gave her leave to tell."

"Who?" said Tom, "Pierson?"

"No," I replied. "Of course not. What would be the sense of writing a secret to Pierson if she was to tell it?"

"I didn't know you wrote a secret to Pierson," said Tom; "I can't understand."

He spoke very meekly, but I felt provoked with him. I felt anxious and fidgety, even though I was so pleased about having found Miss Goldy-hair; and I thought Tom didn't seem to care enough.

"How stupid you are, Tom," I said. "You knew I had written to Pierson to tell her I was going to take you and Racey to her."

"I didn't know it until I heard you tell her," said Tom. "I don't think we could go to Pierson's, Audrey. We might get lost again."

"We wouldn't get lost," I said. "We wouldn't get lost in a cab and in the railway. You're so stupid, Tom. You've been going on so about being so unhappy here, and it was all to please you I thought of going to Pierson's, and now I suppose you'll make out it was all me, when Uncle Geoff speaks about it."

"I never said it was all you," said Tom, "but I thought you'd be so pleased about Miss Goldy-hair; and now you're quite vexed with me."

We were on the fair way to a quarrel, when a distraction came from the direction of Racey.

"Her's got a' air-garden," he called out suddenly in his little shrill voice. "Did you know her had a' air-garden? I've been d'eaming about it. Her's going to show it me. It's full of fairies." (He really said "wairies," but I can't write all his speaking like that; it would be so difficult for you to understand.)

We couldn't help laughing at Racey's fancies, and in his turn Racey was a little inclined to be offended, so Tom and I joined together to try to bring him round.

"I don't know how it is we've got in the way of being so cross to each other," I said sadly. "I'm sure it's quite time Miss Goldy-hair or somebody should teach us how to be good again. How dreadfully quick one forgets."

"Miss Goldy-hair wouldn't like us if we quarrelled," said Tom in a melancholy voice.

"Her wouldn't whip us," observed Racey.

"No, she would try to teach us to be good," I said. "I'm sure I'd try to be good if I was with her. Tom," I went on—and here I really must put down what I said, whether it vexes somebody or not—"Tom, do you know, I think her face is just exactly like an angel's when you look at it quite close."

"Or a fairy's," said Tom.

"No," I said, "an angel's. Fairies are more merry looking than she is. She has such a kind, sorry look—that's why I think her face is like an angel's."

Tom gave a great sigh.

"What's the matter, Tom?" I said.

"I don't know. I think I've got a headache," said Tom.

"But aren't you glad Miss Goldy-hair's coming to fetch us?" I said in my turn.

"Kite early," said Racey.

"Yes, quite early. She promised," I said. "Aren't you glad, Tom?"

"Yes," said Tom, "but I'm sleepy."

I began to be afraid that he was not quite well. Perhaps it was with being so frightened and crying so the night before. I made Racey be quite still, and I didn't speak any more, and in a little I heard by Tom's breathing that he had gone to sleep again. He was still asleep when Sarah came up-stairs to dress us, and I was rather glad, for there were several things I wanted to ask her. Mrs. Partridge had come back, she told me, but much later than she had expected, for she had missed her train and got her best bonnet spoilt walking to the station, and she was very cross.

"But she doesn't know anything about us being out last night?" I said to Sarah.

"Of course not, Miss Audrey. It isn't likely as I'd tell her. But I can't think why you didn't ask me to post your letter instead of thinking of going off like that yourselves. I'll never forget to the last day of my life how frightened I was when I couldn't find you."

"I didn't want to ask you to post it, because I thought perhaps Mrs. Partridge would find out, and then she'd scold you," I said.

Sarah looked mollified.

"Scoldings don't do much good to anybody, it seems to me," she remarked. "I hope your uncle won't scold you," she added. "He was a good while at that lady's last night, but I shouldn't think she's one to make mischief."

"Did he go last night?" I asked, rather anxiously.

"Yes, Miss Audrey. I gave him the card, and he went off at once. Benjamin"—that was Uncle Geoff's footman—"Benjamin says she's a young lady whose mother died not long ago. He knows where she lives and all, but I didn't remember her—not opening the door often you see. She's a very nice young lady, but counted rather odd-like in her ways. For all she's so rich she's as plain as plain in her dress, and for ever working away among poor children, and that sort of way. But to be sure she's alone in the world, and when people are that, and so rich too, it's well when they give a thought to others."

Here a little shrill voice came from the corner of the room, where Racey was still in his cot.

"What's 'alone in the world'?" he inquired.

Sarah gave a little start.

"Bless me," she said, "I thought he was still asleep. Never mind, Master Racey," she said, turning to him, "you couldn't understand."

Racey muttered to himself at this. He hated being told he couldn't understand. But just then Tom woke. He said his headache was better, but still I didn't think he looked quite well.

"Is the new nurse coming to-day?" he inquired of Sarah. Sarah shook her head.

"I've heard nothing about her," she said. "I don't think Mrs. Partridge can have settled anything, and perhaps that's why she came home so cross."

"I don't care if her comes or if her doesn't," said Racey, who had grown very brave. "I'm going to Miss Goldy-hair's."

Sarah wasn't in the room just then, and I was rather glad of it. Somehow I wouldn't have liked her to hear our name for the young lady, and I told him he wasn't to say it to anybody but Tom and me—perhaps the young lady wouldn't like it.

Racey said nothing, but I noticed he didn't say it again before Sarah. He was a queer little boy in some ways. When you thought he wasn't noticing a thing he'd know it quite well, and then he'd say it out again some time when you didn't want him to, very likely.

All breakfast time I kept wondering what was going to happen. Would the young lady come for us herself? Would she send to ask Uncle Geoff to let us go, or had she asked him already? Tom was very quiet—he didn't seem very hungry, though he said his headache was better, but his eyes looked heavy.

"I wish she'd come," he said two or three times. "I'd like to sit on her knee and for her to tell us stories. I'd like to sit on somebody's knee. You're not big enough, are you, Audrey?"

I was afraid not, but I did my best. I sat down on a buffet leaning against a chair, and made the best place I could for Tom.

"Is your head bad again, Tom?" I asked.

"No, only I like sitting this way—quite still," he replied.

I couldn't help being afraid that he was ill. The thought made me very unhappy, for it was my fault that he had gone out in the wet and the cold the night before, and I began to see that I had not been taking care of my little brothers in the right way, and that mother would be very sorry if she knew all about it. It made me feel gentler and different somehow, and I thought to myself that I would ask Miss Goldy-hair to tell me how I could know better what was the right way. I was just thinking that, and I think one or two tears had dropped on Tom's dark hair, when the door opened and Uncle Geoff came in.

At first I couldn't help being frightened. Miss Goldy-hair was sure to have told him, and however nicely she had told him I didn't see how it was possible he shouldn't be angry. I looked up at him, and the tears began to come quicker, and I had to hold my breath to keep myself from bursting out into regular crying. To my surprise Uncle Geoff knelt down on the floor beside me and stroked my head very kindly.

"My poor little Audrey," he said, "and you have been unhappy since you came here? I am so sorry that I have not been able to make you happy, but it isn't too late yet to try again, is it?"

I was so surprised that I couldn't speak. I just sat still, holding Tom close in my arms, and the tears dropping faster and faster.

"I thought you thought I was so naughty, Uncle Geoff," I said at last. "Mrs. Partridge said so, and she said we were such a trouble to you. I thought you'd be glad if we went away; and I thought we were getting naughty. We never quarrelled hardly at home."

"But at home you had your mother and your father, who understood how to keep you happy, so that you weren't tempted to quarrel," said Uncle Geoff. "And I'm only a stupid old uncle, who needs teaching himself, you see. Let's make a compact, Audrey. If you are unhappy, come and tell me yourself, and we'll see if we can't put it right. Never mind what Mrs. Partridge says. She means to be kind, but she's old, and it's a very long time since she had to do with children. Now will you promise me this, Audrey?"

"Yes, Uncle Geoff," I said, in a very low voice.

"And you will never think of running away from your cross old uncle again, will you?" he said.

"No, Uncle Geoff," I replied. "I didn't mean to be naughty. I really didn't. But we did think nobody cared for us here, and mother told me to make the boys happy."

"And we will make them happy. We'll begin to-day and see if we can't manage to understand each other better," said Uncle Geoff, cheerfully. "To-day you will be happy any way, I think, for I have got an invitation for you. You know whom it's from?"

"Yes," said Tom and I together. Tom, who had been lying quite still in my arms all this time listening half sleepily, started up in excitement. "Yes," we said, "it's from Miss Goldy-hair."

"Miss—how much?" said Uncle Geoff.

We couldn't help laughing.

"We called her that because we didn't know her name, and her hair was so pretty," we said.

Uncle Geoff laughed too.

"It's rather a nice name, I think," he said. "What funny creatures children are! I must set to work to understand them better. Well, yes, you're quite right. Miss Goldy-hair wants you all three to go and spend all the day with her. But what's the matter with Tom?" he went on. "Have you a headache, my boy?" for Tom had let his head drop down again on my shoulder.

"Yes," said Tom, "and a sore t'roat, Uncle Geoff." Uncle Geoff looked rather grave at this.

"Let's have a look at you, my boy," he said.

He lifted Tom up in his arms and carried him to the window and examined his throat.

"He must have caught cold," he said. "It isn't very bad so far, but I'm afraid—I'm very much afraid he mustn't go out to-day."

He—Uncle Geoff—looked at me as if he were wondering how I would take this.

"Oh, poor Tom!" I cried. "Oh, Uncle Geoff, it was all my fault for letting him go out last night. Oh, Uncle Geoff, do forgive me. I'll be so good, and I'll try to amuse poor Tom and make him happy all day."

"Then you don't want to go without him?" said Uncle Geoff.

"Oh, of course not," I replied. "Of course I'd not leave Tom when he's ill, and when it was my fault too. Oh, Uncle Geoff, you don't think he's going to be very ill, do you?"

Tom looked up very pathetically.

"Don't cry, poor Audrey," he said. "My t'roat isn't so vrezy bad."

Uncle Geoff was very kind.

"No," he said. "I don't think it'll be very bad. But you must take great care of him, Audrey. And I don't know how to do. I don't like your being left so much alone, and yet there's no one in the house fit to take care of you."

"Hasn't Mrs. Partridge got a new nurse for us?" I asked.

"No," said Uncle Geoff, smiling a little. "She hasn't found one yet."

There came a sort of squeal from the corner of the room. We all started. It was Racey. He was playing as usual with his beloved horses, not seeming to pay any attention to what we were saying. But he was attending all the time, and the squeal was a squeal of delight at hearing that the new nurse was not coming.

"What is the matter, Racey?" I said.

"Her's not tumming," he shouted. "Her won't whip us."

"Who said anything about being whipped?" said Uncle Geoff.

We hesitated.

"I don't quite know," I said. "Mrs. Partridge said we should have a very strict nurse, and I don't know how it was the boys thought she'd whip them."

Uncle Geoff looked rather grave again.

"I must go," he said. "I will let Miss Goldy-hair,"—he smiled again when he said it—"I will let her know that I can't let Tom out to-day and that his good little sister won't leave him;"—how kind I thought it of Uncle Geoff to say that!—"and I must do the best I can to find a nice nurse for you—one that won't whip you, Racey."

"Must Tom go to bed?" I asked.

"No," said Uncle Geoff, "if he keeps warm and out of the draughts. Mrs. Partridge will come up to see him; but you needn't be afraid, Audrey, I'm not going to say anything about last night to her. You and I have made an agreement, you know."

Mrs. Partridge did come up, and she was really very kind—much kinder than she had been before. She was one of those people that get nicer when you're ill; and besides, Uncle Geoff had said something to her, I'm sure, though I never knew exactly what. Any way she left off calling us naughty and telling us what a trouble we were. But it was all thanks to Miss Goldy-hair, Tom and I said so to each other over and over again. No one else could have put things right the way she had done.

Tom was very good and patient, though his throat was really pretty bad and his head ached. Mrs. Partridge sent him some black currant tea to drink a little of every now and then, and Uncle Geoff sent Benjamin to the chemist's with some doctor's writing on a paper and he brought back some rather nasty medicine which poor Tom had to take every two hours. But though I did my very best to amuse him, and read him over and over again all the stories I could find, it seemed a very long, cold, dull morning, and we couldn't help thinking how different it was from what we had hoped for—spending the day with Miss Goldy-hair, I mean.

"If only we hadn't gone out in the cold last night you'd have been quite well to-day, Tom," I said sadly.

"Yes, but then we wouldn't have found Miss Goldy-hair," said Tom.

"I don't see that it's much good to have found her," said I. I was rather dull and sorry about Tom, and I didn't know what more to do to amuse him. "I don't believe we'll see her for ever so long, and perhaps she'll forget about us as she has such a lot of children she cares for."

"But they're poor children," said Tom, "she can't like them as much as us. She said so."

"She didn't mean it that way," I said. "She'd be very angry if she'd heard you say that, as if poor children weren't as good as rich ones."

"But she did say so," persisted Tom. "When I asked her if going to see the poor children was as nice as if she had us always, she said no."

"Well, she meant it wasn't as nice as if she was mother and had her own children always. She didn't mean anything about because they were poor. I believe she likes poor children best. Lots of people do, and I'm sure we've lots of trouble too, though we're not poor. If we'd been poor like the ones in Little Meg's Children, or Froggy's Brother Ben, Miss Goldy-hair would have been here ever so early this morning, with blankets and coals, and milk, and bread and sugar—"

"And 'tawberry dam and delly and 'ponge cakes and olanges and eberysing," interrupted Racey, coming forward from his corner.