book I

’d brought from home that was called “_Vanity Fair_”; it is an interesting book, but rather muddly, and the girl in it, Amelia, is a gump. That’s what Humphrey and I call people who are silly like that. I’d read quite a lot by the time the breakfast bell rang and I took it down to go on with afterwards.

Mrs. Charlton was sitting in an armchair at the head of the table, and all the servants were there for prayers. They seemed to be all waiting for me. Just as if this wasn’t bad enough, the minute I got in Mrs. Charlton called out, “What is that book that you have got in your hand?”

Well, when I showed it to her she seemed quite cross. She said, “Has your Mother given you permission to read this?” in the most severe way. I said “Yes,” because Mother had never told us we mayn’t read anything. Then I thought that as Mother hadn’t mentioned this particular book, perhaps that wasn’t true, so I said “No.” Then I remembered Mother had said once that we might always take magazines, and this was on that shelf, so I said “Yes,” again. I said, “It’s got paper covers, you see.”

“Don’t prevaricate, child,” Mrs. Charlton said, “I’m sorry to see you are not more straightforward.” She went and locked up my book, which I did think a shame, and the prayers began. It was horrid her thinking I told stories, and very silly, just when I was trying to be so partic’larly truthful.

After breakfast we went for a walk in the village; and that wasn’t bad, only another unpleasant thing happened first. I don’t think I said that when I got up, I tied Mother’s penwiper round my neck with a bootlace, because that made me feel nice. Well, when we were starting to go out Mrs. Charlton suddenly said, “What is that untidy piece of black tape showing above your dress?”

I pretended not to hear. I didn’t know what else to do, because of course I couldn’t tell her about private things like that. She asked me again, but I still didn’t say anything. Then she shook her head and said, “Sullen, sullen,” to herself, though I was just going away to take the penwiper off so as to please her. At least I didn’t take it right off, I tied it round my waist instead, where the bootlace couldn’t show, only it was very prickly. It wasn’t my fault keeping Mrs. Charlton waiting either, for I had to quite undress to do it. I forgot to say that it was a very nice penwiper, that I’d made for Mother as a birthday present, when I was quite little. It had “Mother” worked on it in beads, and the date and how old she was; at least I’d made a mistake about the last and put seventy-eight. You see, Father used to tell us that was Mother’s age for a joke, and we really believed it. Of course I was only a little girl then.

The village wasn’t far away, and when we came back, I played in the garden. There wasn’t much to do and so I climbed a tree. Almost directly Mrs. Charlton came tearing out in a great fuss and said that it was most dangerous and unladylike and that I was never to do such a thing again. I felt very cross, because really it was a silly little tree that a baby could climb, but I remembered what I promised Mother, so I just walked about in a stupid, grown-up way and wondered if lunch-time was ever coming.

In the afternoon it was worse, because it began to rain. Mrs. Charlton and I sat in the drawing-room and did nothing. There was a Persian cat, who you would think would have been some comfort, but he was the stupidest cat I ever saw. He just slept the whole time. Mrs. Charlton asked me then if I hadn’t got any needlework, so I went and fetched the mat that I’m working for Cousin Sophy’s wedding present. (It will be rather late, because Cousin Sophy went and got married about a year ago, before I could get it done; I do think she needn’t have been in such a hurry.) I sat there and sewed for ages and ages until I thought my head would drop off; at last I found I’d forgotten to bring the skein of the silk, and I couldn’t do any more. That was nice.

Tea came just then, real afternoon tea, with thin bread and butter and two very nice little scone things on a separate plate and a little jug of cream, that I’m partic’larly fond of. Well, I tried not to be greedy, but I couldn’t help being rather pleased, when suddenly Mrs. Charlton said, “Pussy is so fond of cream, I know you won’t mind his having it,” and she crumbled up both the little scones and poured all the cream over them, every drop. Then she asked me to put it down on the floor in the corner.

After tea Mrs. Charlton asked me if I’d like to read a little, because she said she’d look out a nice suitable book for me. I was very pleased, even though I found it was a book with a shiny red cover and green leaves on it, which sort generally aren’t interesting. It was called “_How Little Susan Saved the Home_,” and it was all about poor people.

It wasn’t a bad sort of book, though it was written rather as if you had got no sense at all. It was about a little girl who used to wait outside the public-house every night to come home with her father. I don’t see that that was so horrid for her. When we were in London, the Punch and Judy shows were almost always at public-house corners, and once we saw a dear fat dog in a patchwork coat and the darlingest white mice on his back, but Cousin Sophy would never let us stop. Of course on wet nights it can’t have been such fun for Little Susan, but I dare say they’d have let her wait inside, only she seemed to be too silly to ask. In the middle of the book there was a very horrible bit, about the father getting tipsy and kind of mad, but he got all right at the end. It was in such big print I soon finished it, because I read very quickly.

Mrs. Charlton had gone off to sleep, so I didn’t know what to do. I looked at the bookcase, but it was locked, so I walked round the room, and there in the back drawing-room, rather high up, was a shelf with some old-looking books on it. I went up to Mrs. Charlton to ask her if I might take one, but she was still asleep. Well, I didn’t really think she’d mind, because they were so shabby, so I climbed up on a chair and chose one called “_Peregrine Pickle_”; I thought from the name it might be about a boy who got into scrapes. It was rather disappointing inside, and the s’s were funny and difficult to read, but bits were interesting. It was written in a nice way too, not sillily like “_Little Susan_,” and there weren’t any horrid parts in it either.

Suddenly, as I was reading, the book was snatched out of my hand. Mrs. Charlton was standing there looking furious. “How dare you take that book, you wicked girl!” she said; “go to your room and pray for a better nature.” I told her that I only took it because I’d finished the one that she gave me, and I didn’t know what to do till she woke, but she didn’t seem to believe me; it did seem curious and horrid.

I went upstairs as she told me, and it was so dull that I said the multiplication table three times forwards and once backwards, and before that I’d repeated nearly all the poetry I knew, besides trying to reckon out how much the horse’s shoe would cost if you paid a farthing for the first nail and doubled it for each one. Of course I pretended I was in the Bastille all the time, but there weren’t any rats or toads or anything nice, and I was quite glad even to see the housemaid. It wasn’t the real housemaid either, because she was old, and disagreeable; this was one I hadn’t seen before. She brought me some bread and milk for my supper.

“I dare say you’re missing your little brothers and sisters,” she said.

I hadn’t thought of it before, but directly she said it, I knew that that was why I was so miserable. I seemed suddenly to want Mother and them all so dreadfully, that I could hardly help crying. Lizzie (the servant told me that was her name, and that she was the hupandowngirl, not the housemaid), well, she was most nice; she seemed the nicest person in the house. She said she used to cry herself to sleep every night when she first went out to service. She told me about her home too, and that there were twelve of them, and that they used to sleep four in one bed, and lovely things like that. She was just telling me about her pigs, when the bell rang rather angrily.

“Lor, I must be off, the Missus will be in a fine taking,” Lizzie said, and she ran away.

When Lizzie had gone, I was just going to be miserable, but suddenly she rushed in again, and threw a lot of newspaper things on to the bed. “I thought maybe they’d amuse you, but don’t let the Missus see ’em,” she said, and she tore out, because the bell was ringing more crossly than ever.

I certainly did know that I oughtn’t to read books when I’d been sent upstairs in disgrace, and I’d better confess that at once. But then it didn’t feel to me that I’d done anything to be punished for, and it did seem so tempting. First I thought I’d just look at the pictures--for there was one on each cover--of gentlemen shooting each other and ladies in their dressing-gowns, with their hair down, and things like that, all most exciting. So I began just to turn over the leaves to see the names of the people in the pictures, but before I knew what I was doing I was reading one story straight through. I truthfully forgot then about it’s being naughty.

It was a very interesting story, all about lords and dukes; I had never read one like it before. They were most funny people, and always getting fond of quite strangers and wanting to fly with them. I was just in the middle, when suddenly I heard the door open. Before I could think, I’d pushed all the papers under the eiderdown. That was the part Mother minded most when I told her, because it seemed mean. I’ve tried to think since that I did it because Lizzie had asked me not to let any one see the papers, but it wasn’t that really, at least not mostly. Besides, what Mother said was that if I had put away the novelettes at the beginning without looking at them, and then have given them back to Lizzie at the first opportunity, that would have saved her getting into trouble just the same, and I should not have been mean.

Well, I suppose when Mrs. Charlton came in I looked rather uncomfortable; also there may have been a bit of one of the papers sticking out. Anyway, the first thing she did was to lift up the eiderdown. Then of course she saw them all. I felt awful.

No one said anything for what seemed a long time, and then Mrs. Charlton made a horrid noise in her throat and began: “You are so utterly deceitful,” she said, “that it is not of very much use to put questions to you, but I should be glad if you would kindly inform me where you procured this degrading form of literature.”

I didn’t answer. That wasn’t naughtiness, but because of Lizzie. Mrs. Charlton asked me again, and she asked me other questions of the same sort, but of course I couldn’t answer them either. She got angrier and angrier. At last she said, “I shall send you home immediately. I cannot have my household corrupted by your low tastes and deceitfulness.”

That was the first nice thing she had said since I had been there. Of course I didn’t altogether like it, because it seemed horrid to be sent home in disgrace; besides, my coming back would be a worry for them, when Humph was so ill. But I was so happy at the idea of seeing Mother again that I couldn’t really think of anything else. I could hardly help jumping, I was so happy. I said, “Please, shall I put on my coat and hat at once?”

I’m sure I said it most politely, but Mrs. Charlton replied “No” most angrily. She said, “You may certainly rest assured that I do not wish to keep you a moment longer than I am compelled, but I am afraid that it would be impossible for me to arrange for your return to-night.” Then she went away.

After she had gone I thought a lot. First of all I packed my box, so as to be ready the first thing in the morning. Then I suddenly thought, Why couldn’t I arrange my journey home all alone, so as not to bother Mrs. Charlton? Then I could start off directly? I rushed to the window to see if it had stopped raining, and it had.

When I began to plan it out it seemed to get easier and easier. It was only three and a half miles to the station, and along the big road with milestones and telegraph posts all the way. I knew, because, besides driving up the day before, we’d gone along a bit of the road to the village that morning. I’d got my return ticket to King’s Cross in my purse, and once that I got there I’d just take a cab to Waterloo, and then I could get home quite well. I know all about the trains from there, you see, because I’ve been lots of times. I’d got plenty of money, because there was the half-crown that Mother gave me before I came away (I had sewed it into my clothes, of course, like people do for travelling). Then I’d got a shilling and a farthing from my pocket-money, and a sixpence with a hole in it; I knew that with all that I could manage quite well. The only bother was about my box: I couldn’t carry it, of course; it _was_ puzzling. I thought, though, I might tell them at the station to call for it the next day, and let it go by itself, like we sometimes do at home. I wrote the address on the label in printing very neatly.

I thought then that I’d start off, though I did feel a little uncomfortable as to whether Mother would mind. She certainly doesn’t like me to go out alone, but sometimes I have been sent on a message. Of course it was getting rather late, but I thought if I ran I could get to Corby, where the station is, before it got quite dark. Besides, I knew Mother wouldn’t wish me to stop when Mrs. Charlton didn’t want me; I heard her say once herself that visitors should never outstay their welcome. The chiefest thing, though, was that I felt I just couldn’t go a whole night more without seeing Mother.

The worst part to think of was the going downstairs. My heart was thumping dreadfully by the time I had got on my coat and hat. Oh, first I pinned a little note on to the pincushion to say that I’d gone. It was most useful that I’d read Lizzie’s book, because that is what Lady Vera did before she flew with the Duke; I mightn’t ever have thought of it by myself. I forgot to say that I’d tied up all the magazines in a piece of brown paper and addressed them to “Miss Lizzie Hupandowngirl, thankyou.” I had to put just that because I didn’t know her other name.

It was perfectly awful--the going down I mean. The stairs seemed to creak just as if they were doing it on purpose. Every minute I thought some one would come. No one did, though. I expect Mrs. Charlton was having her late dinner; anyway, there was nobody about. I crept across the hall and opened the front door. The squeak it made was dreadful. I stood there for a minute feeling quite sick and funny, but still no one came. So I went out and shut the door behind me as softly as I could. Then I ran and ran.

Of course I couldn’t run all the way to Corby; I had to go slower pretty soon. I kept running little bits now and then, but it seemed a dreadfully long way. I was so afraid that some one Mrs. Charlton knew would see me and perhaps send me back, but though the people I met looked at me in rather a surprised way, they didn’t speak. I hid behind the hedge, too, until they’d passed, when I heard them coming in time.

It was getting quite dark for the last part of the way, and the lamps were all lit at Corby. I couldn’t remember the turning to the station, but I asked a little boy. They speak so funnily up there that I didn’t understand what he said, but he pointed out the way all right.

There was only one porter person at the station, and I was rather glad of that. He seemed rather stupid, but when I’d asked him two or three times, he said there was a train to King’s Cross at 8.52. That was very lucky, because it was already a quarter past eight. The porter asked me if I had got any luggage, but I said, “No, you are to fetch that to-morrow.” I didn’t think until afterwards that I hadn’t told him the address.

When the train came it was very full, because there had been an excursion or something. I found one compartment that wasn’t quite so full, and I got in. A gentleman said, “Come on, there’s room for a little ’un,” and another said, “The more the merrier.” They certainly were very merry, for they were singing songs the whole time, and fighting, but all in fun. I didn’t know grown-up people played like that.

There was a very fat lady sitting opposite me, and she began to talk. She said suddenly in rather a strict way, “Where’s your Ma, my dear?” and I said, “At home.”

After a minute or two she started again. She said, “Ain’t your Ma well?”

I said, “Yes, it’s Humph who is ill.” Then she asked me some more about him, and I told her.

I thought she’d stopped, and I quite jumped when she said very crossly, “I suppose your Pa won’t leave ’is smoke. Puff an’ pull the whole day long, that’s the way with all these men. Pigs, I calls ’em!”

I didn’t exactly understand. I said, “Father doesn’t smoke the whole day, but he is very fond of it. He likes to have his pipe if he can.” I found out afterwards that she thought I meant that Father was in a smoking compartment of the same train; I’m sure I don’t know why. I’d got so sleepy, though, that I didn’t seem to be able to explain anything or think properly at all.

There was a funny little thin man sitting next to the fat lady, who looked as if he’d got there by mistake. He was like a white rabbit with a cold in its head. Suddenly the fat lady said, “Jeremiah, change places this minute with the young lady,” and he jumped up in quite a frightened way. Then she said to me much more nicely, “You come an’ set ’ere, my dear, then you’ll be able to lean up aginst me an’ rest yourself more comfortable like.”

I was so sleepy that I could hardly stand. It was most peculiar. So the fat lady pulled me up and put my head on her lap, just as if I were a baby; I didn’t seem to mind at all. I was rather ashamed when I thought about it afterwards, but Mother says it didn’t matter, and that the fat lady was most kind. I think so, too, though her lap was rather steep to be very comfortable. All the same, I must have gone off to sleep almost directly.

The next thing I remember was being lifted up. The fat lady and the little white-rabbit gentleman were bustling about getting down their things, and the train was stopping. “No, this ain’t King’s Cross, my dear,” she said, “but we ain’t far off, so you jist pop on your ’at. We gets out ’ere, but I suppose your Pa will come for you at the next station. I’d like to give my fine gentleman a piece of my mind,” she went on to the little rabbit man, “leaving that pore child in ’ere an’ never so much as taking the trouble to clap ’is eyes upon ’er the ’ole blessed way.”

I was so astonished altogether, I could hardly speak. You see, for the first minute or two I couldn’t remember where I was. So I just said, “Thank you very much, thank you,” a good many times over. The fat lady bent down and kissed me, and said, “There’s a good little girl.” And, do you know, when her face was close, it looked for a minute like Mother’s. It was most astonishing, because she was so red and funny.

I got quite awake getting my hat down from the rack, and almost directly after we arrived at King’s Cross. There was a great rush and bustle, and only one or two cabs, so it’s lucky the other excursion people didn’t all want them; every one seemed to be walking. I thought I’d better make haste, though, so I said to one cabman, “Are you engaged?” and when he said “No,” I jumped in quickly.

Well, I expected that he’d start at once, but he didn’t. I waited a minute or two, then I poked open the little hole, which is rather difficult to do because it’s so high. I said, “Will you tell your horse to go, please?”

He looked most astonished. He said, “You ain’t all alone?” I said “Yes.” Then he was very cross. He said “Come, now, get out of this.” I remembered then that I hadn’t told him where to go to, and I thought that might be making him so disagreeable. I said, “I beg your pardon for not telling you that I want to go to Waterloo Station, and I want to start at once, please.”

The man seemed to get more surprised still. He said (I can’t help it, it’s sounding dreadful, but it’s what he really did say)--he said, “Well, I’m blessed!” Then he called out to a porter, but the porter was too busy to hear him.

I didn’t know what to do because he didn’t seem to be even beginning to start. Then I remembered that when we were at Cousin Sophy’s the cabman wouldn’t drive us back from the pantomime because he said Chiswick was too far. So I poked open the little hole again, and I said, “You are on the rank plying for hire, and unless you start immediately I shall summons you.” That was what Cousin Sophy said; Humph and I have often acted it since, because the cabman was so angry and there was such an exciting fuss.

This cabman wasn’t angry, though; he just seemed to get more and more astonished. He began to laugh, and he said again, “Well, I’m blessed!” Then he said, “You ain’t running away, are you, Missy?”

I said “No.” I think that was true, because it isn’t exactly running away when you have been told that you are to go the next day in any case. I said, “I am just travelling home to my Mother.”

That seemed to decide him more. He was going to start, when he thought of something else to worry over. He called down, “But ’ow about my fare, Missy?”

I had been rather troubled about that myself. I’d got the half-crown for him, of course, and the ticket home from Waterloo is only one-and-five-pence-halfpenny, so he could have another halfpenny out of the sixpence with the hole in it, as well as my bright farthing. But I wasn’t sure if even all that was enough. Cabs are so dreadfully expensive, Mother always says; and Father says one oughtn’t to be stingy. So I just explained it to the cabman. I said, “I’ve got half-a-crown for you, and a halfpenny out of the sixpence with a hole in it, and a bright farthing; and if you’ll drive me as far as you can for that without me being stingy, I’ll walk the rest.” I knew there couldn’t be very much further to go, anyway.

The cabman, though, was most nice. He said, “The ’alf-crown will do nicely for me, Missy. You can keep the rest.” Then we really did drive off.

I did like it in the cab, and the streets were all bright with the lights. A clock we passed said it was ten minutes to twelve; wasn’t that an astonishing time? When we got to Waterloo I jumped out and gave the cabman his money. He said, “Shall you find the lady all right?” I said “Yes.” I think he would have said more, only just at that minute some one waved to him from the opposite side of the road.

There weren’t very many people in the station, but they all stared very rudely, and some looked as if they were going to speak. So I hurried on as fast as I could to the place where you get the tickets. I knew there was a train in the middle of the night, you see, because Father comes down by it sometimes after parties. The little window for buying the tickets was open. (I can reach up to it quite easily on tiptoe; Humphrey can’t, he’d have to take a footstool if he travelled alone.) I said, “One half-third single to Farncombe.”

Well, the gentleman there looked as surprised as the cabman. He said “What?” quite crossly. I thought it was because I hadn’t said “please,” but he wasn’t a bit nicer when I did. Then some other people came near, and that seemed to make the gentleman in the little hole less surprised. He punched my ticket and gave it to me, and he said, “I suppose your Mother has a season ticket?” I said, “No, Father has.” I didn’t know why he asked, but I think now he thought that I belonged to the people who were standing there. It was very silly of him, for the lady wasn’t the least bit like Mother; she looked horrid.

I know the platform from which our trains mostly start, besides a good many other people were going along as well. I heard one lady say, “Who does that little girl belong to?” And the gentleman said, “Oh, to that lot, I think.” It made me very cross that everybody should mistake the horrid lady for Mother, but I didn’t like to explain. Somebody else, too, asked me if I were lost, but I said, very hard, “No.”

It was so uncomfortable, people talking to me like this, that I got into the first empty carriage that I saw. I got under the seat, too, so that they’d be less likely to bother me with questions. It isn’t nice when every one is so astonished and cross at you.

I liked it under the seat, but I was so afraid that it was naughty. I did hope that Mother wouldn’t mind. You see, she always says that I am so careless about my clothes, and that it is unkind to Violet, who has to wear them when I have grown out of them. It does seem hard on Violet, certainly, because she never spoils anything herself. I think she’d look neat on a desert island. She really ought to have been born an eldest. It made it worse, too, because I was wearing my titums. I suppose every one knows that a titums is your middle-best dress; the others are hitums and scrub.

Of course, I didn’t stop under the seat all the time, or else I might have passed the station. I thought afterwards that it was lucky no one got into the carriage, because grown-up people are so easily astonished, and they might have thought it funny when I came crawling out. We only stopped twice before we got to Farncombe, which made it easier, and I had lots of time to plan what I’d do when we got there. First of all, though, I tried if both doors of the compartment were unlocked, because that was part of the plan. They were. I began to feel like the Young Pretender after Culloden.

Well, it all went beautifully. As the train slowed down to go into Farncombe Station I jumped out of the door on the other side to our platform. Then I ran across the line and crouched down by the hedge until the train had gone off again and everything was quiet. I did this because the station-master and all the people at Farncombe know us, and I thought there’d be more fuss. Besides, the station-master is a most disagreeable man.

I knew there was a hole in the hedge just there, because Humph and I discovered it one day when Fräulein took us to meet Mother; she’d missed her train, and so we had to wait a long time. It wasn’t true, though, that Humph and I first made that hole, like the station-master said; it was there all the time, though it may have got a teeny bit larger, but then holes are things that grow fast, like in sheets, but ’specially with woollen gloves. Anyway it was a good thing now that it had got big, because I was able to find it quite easily and to scramble through into the field. Nobody saw me, so after waiting a few minutes more I walked across and got over the stile into the road.

I had quite forgotten that it would be dark for this walk, when I planned to come home at Mrs. Charlton’s. If I had remembered, I might not have started, because of thinking that Mother would not like it, but I should never have guessed that it would be so horrid in itself. It wasn’t pitch black either, like it sometimes is. I’m not sure it wasn’t worse, because it was light enough to see all sorts of dreadful black things all round, and once you get quite outside Farncombe there aren’t any more lights or houses at all. It was so quiet, too, there wasn’t a sound. All at once I began to think of mad dogs and St. Denis. I thought, suppose there was some one coming after me, holding his head in his hands and looking down at it with his bleeding neck, like in the picture. I wanted to run dreadfully, but I wouldn’t let myself, because if you once start, something seems to come after you that will clutch you with long, clawy fingers if you stop. I thought of Mother instead, as hard as ever I could, and I’d got the penwiper on still, so I held that through my clothes. That made it rather better.

Suddenly I saw something in the road moving. I could hardly breathe. It was awful. But then it came nearer, and I saw it was just an ordinary man. He had on his head quite all right. He said “Hullo!” and I said “Good-evening.”

I didn’t think he was a very nice man, though; for he came up quite close in rather a rude way. He caught hold of me and said, “That’s a nice brooch you’ve got on,” and I said, “Yes; Father gave it to me last birthday. It’s real gold.”

The man didn’t answer because just then we heard wheels coming. He listened for a minute and then he dashed away into the bushes. The carriage was really on the upper road, so he needn’t have minded. I didn’t tell that to him, because I didn’t like him much. It was kind of him, though, to admire my brooch. He was only a common sort of man, so I dare say he’d never been taught manners and things.

I felt much better and more comfortable after meeting the man. I got almost directly to where our short cut through the copse begins, and that made it seem more like home. I thought that I could let myself begin to run there, because it’s such a little way, but all the same I did feel frightened before I got to the house. I rushed up to the front door and tugged at the handle. It was locked!

Well, of course, I might have known that it would be, but at the time it seemed the worst thing of all. I began screaming out “Mother, Mother!” and I was all shaking and crying, I don’t know why. Almost before you’d have thought there was time, the door was pulled back and Mother had hold of me.

After that it was all right, of course, and almost too nice to tell. Mother had come running down just as she was, though she said afterwards that she hadn’t really believed that it could be me, and had thought that she was dreaming it all. She carried me up and undressed me and put me into her own bed. I was still rather silly, for I didn’t seem to be able to say anything, only a line I’d read kept going on inside my head about “Port after stormy seas.”

Presently, though, Mother began to ask me questions. She kept asking me if I had really come all the way alone, as if she could hardly believe it. Each time I said “Yes” she cuddled me again. Then she asked me if Mrs. Charlton knew; so I ’splained about it. Mother didn’t say anything hardly then, but she wrote a telegram for Mrs. Charlton to say that I’d arrived safely, and she put it for the gardener to take to the post-office the first thing in the morning. Mother got me some milk, and some cake, which I ate while she went in for a minute to see Humph. I forgot to say that of course I’d asked about him at the beginning, and Mother said that he had got much better the last day. Fräulein was with him, so Mother didn’t have to stay. She came back to me, and I was so happy it seemed to make me sleepy all at once. It was almost too lovely to feel that Mother was quite close to me.

The next day it wasn’t so nice, though. Mother talked to me a long time, and she said a thing that made me feel dreadfully bad; she said I’d been selfish; I’d thought of my own feelings but not of other people’s. She said that fortunately Mrs. Charlton had not discovered my absence until the next morning, but if she had done so she would have been extremely worried, and, at her age, it might have made her quite ill. Also she’d have telegraphed home, and Mother says had she known that I was wandering about the country by myself all night, she could hardly have borne it, especially when Humphrey was so ill and Father away. I minded that part much more than about Mrs. Charlton. Mother looked so unhappy, it was dreadful. I promised and promised I’d never do such a thing again.

That wasn’t all the disagreeables either. The next day a letter came from Cousin Sophy in London, asking me and the little ones to stay with her. She’d been abroad before, and so had only just heard of Humph’s having measles. Well, Mother wrote to Jane, who was away in lodgings with the little ones, to tell her to take them to Cousin Sophy’s at the end of the week, because Mother knew that they’d like it better. But with regard to me, Mother said she hardly liked to trust me away from home again.

I minded the not being trusted part, but I didn’t mind the not going so much when Mother told me, because it seemed so nice to stop at home with her. But it wasn’t really; it was a great deal horrider than I could have ’magined. I hardly saw Mother at all because she was looking after Humphrey all the time, and I wasn’t allowed to go in to him. As for Fräulein, she was most strict and disagreeable. And then when Violet wrote she said that Cousin Sophy had taken them to the Zoo and the Chamber of Horrors, and lots of other lovely places. I did feel cross.

They are back now, though, and Humph is well, and everything is nice. I’ve quite settled not to go visiting strangers alone again--no, not as long as I live. The others are so interested in my adventures, though, that it almost makes one forget how horrid they really were. Perhaps the lovely things you read in books are really like that, and even being a cowboy mayn’t be always nice. And I do think a journey like mine would be too dreadful for any one if Mother weren’t waiting for them at the end of it.

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