CHAPTER XXVII.

A NEW HOME.

IT was a lovely day, out in the fair country, far away from the smoke and dust, the noise and turmoil, which had surrounded Ailie from earliest babyhood. Through the drive from the station, Ailie sat beside her mother in the farmer's cart which had been sent to meet them, wondering till words failed her at all she saw.

The green early grass stretching into the far distance, the purple horizon tints, the budding richness of hedges near at hand, the glee of birds overhead, the lowing of cows in the meadows, the gay frisking of tiny lambs beside their staid old mothers, the harsh cawing of rooks in old elm trees—what a marvellous world it was!

Ailie's pent-up delight broke forth in one eager cry: "O mother! Just think o' livin' here!"

"Seems a dream to me, to be seeing a green field again, it do," said Mary Carter.

"O mother, don't it look as if there was room here?" said Ailie. "An' not every one a-crowdin' an' pushin' everybody! Why, it looks most as if the world was gettin' empty."

"Ah, you be come from London parts," said the stout driver in his smock frock, who had been whistling a nameless tune, and letting his plump horse jog along quietly at any pace it chose. "Lots o' folks in London, ain't there, an' not much o' green fields?"

"I never see a green field in all my life afore," said Ailie, upon which the worthy man ejaculated—

"Think o' that now! Never see a green field!" and gazed at Ailie with compassion.

"O mother,—see, there be a brown field too!" cried Ailie. "What's it for?"

"That be sown with wheat," said the man. "Ye'll see it all a-comin' up by an' by. An' there, over among the trees, is the house I'm a-takin' ye to—Mrs. Therlock's."

"An' she lives there?" said Ailie.

"That she do,—an' her father an' grandfather afore her. A mighty kind lady she be, and we're main glad to have her among us again, with little Miss Vi and all."

Passing by a plantation of saplings growing close to the road, a small gate in the fence opened, and two little girls rushed out. "I knew it was them," cried Josie. "I knew it, directly I heard the cart. O stop, please—don't drive on. Let them both get down here. What do you think of the country, Ailie?"

The man pulled up slowly, threw the reins on the old horse's neck, stepped down himself first, lifted Ailie to the ground, and helped her mother to follow. Ailie gazed wonderingly round, and back at Josie.

"Well?" repeated Josie. "You look as puzzled as Vi did, when first we came. But you like it now, don't you, Vi?"

"It's just beautiful," said little Vi emphatically. "Ever so much better than the old court, ain't it, Ailie?"

Ailie nodded. Words would not come yet. "Mother will see you soon," said Josie, assuming the patronizing "Miss Therlock" air, which she sometimes put on. "And now I am going to show you your new home. Come along, Vi,—we'll lead the way."

Holding Vi's hand, as if she counted her little sister her especial charge, Josie danced along the grass borders, looking back impatiently at Mary Carter's slower footsteps.

"It's not far," she said, "only along the road,—straight on this way. After all, you might as well have kept in the cart, but it doesn't matter. We're close now. Only this one corner. There!"

They had reached the large iron gates which formed the principal entrance to the grounds. Beside them stood a fancy cottage, small and neat, overgrown by honeysuckle and clematis. One lattice window below and one above looked towards the road, and a tiny garden, stocked with early vegetables, lay on one side. Ailie's eyes went speechlessly to her mother and to Josie.

"Yes, that's it," said Josie. "That is to be your own home now. And all you've got to do is to open and shut the gate, Mrs. Carter, when a carriage passes through. But mother will tell you all that by and by. Come now,—come in and see how you like the rooms."

Following the eager child, Ailie and her mother found themselves in a neat kitchen, furnished with a strong deal table, two wooden chairs, and a small dresser which bore an ample supply of blue china and other requisites. Nothing would satisfy Josie but that they must at once climb the ladder staircase, into the upper room, and there admire the tidy bed, the chintz curtains, the painted wooden chest of drawers, and the washhand-stand, with its jug and basin. She chattered fast enough herself to make up for their bewildered silence, and as soon as she had done displaying the bedroom, she brought them down again.

"I think I have shown you all now, Mrs. Carter."

Poor Mary could do nothing but curtsey in her wordless gratitude.

"And mother has put some tea in this little box, and there's the teapot up there, and Vi and I brought some milk and bread and butter ourselves this afternoon, didn't we, Vi? So you can have your tea as soon as you like. Shall I tell mother you are pleased?"

Assurances on this point were so unnecessary, while in full view of those two faces, that Josie did not wait for them, and went springing away along the gravel pathway, the long ribbon ends of her hat floating out in the breeze. Lettie lingered behind, looking sedately at Ailie.

"It's just like a dream, so it be," said Mary Carter, slowly. "Such a place as this! Why, I don't know if I'm in my senses to think it's for us."

"It's just beautiful!" said Ailie, with one long breath.

"An' I haven't said a word o' thanks," said Mary. "I couldn't. Seemed as if none 'ud come. But Miss Vi 'll tell the lady,—won't ye, Miss? I can't say all I ought."

"I'll tell mamma you're glad," said Lettie, adding thoughtfully,—"Ailie, don't you wish ever so much that old gran'father was here?"

"He'd ha' liked the green grass, an' the trees' an' the flowers," said Ailie.

"Mamma says heaven's ever so much beautifuller than the country," said Lettie. "I don't know how, but she says it is."

"Gran'father didn't seem to want to come, 'cause he was afraid he'd learn to love it more than heaven," said Ailie. "I hope we won't,—but I do think it'll be hard not to," she added, looking through the window at the sunshine without. "It do seem pretty."

"Maybe if we try, we won't neither," said Lettie. "Josie will want me, and I'll go now."

Smiling a farewell, she too went off along the gravel path, in somewhat more sober fashion than Josie.

Ailie stood gazing after the little departing figure, thinking to herself how she would need to know and love and trust God much, even as old Job Kippis had known and loved and trusted, if she would keep the thought of Heaven first in her heart, before the thought of this her new sweet cottage-home.

THE END.