The Railway Children
The Railway ChildrenChapter I. The beginning of things.Chapter II. Peter's coal-mine.Chapter III. The old gentleman.Chapter IV. The engine-burglar.Chapter V. Prisoners and captives.Chapter VI. Saviours of the train.Chapter VII. For valour.Chapter VIII. The amateur firemen.Chapter IX. The pride of Perks.Chapter X. The terrible secret.Chapter XI. The hound in the red jersey.Chapter XII. What Bobbie brought home.Chapter XIII. The hound's grandfather.Chapter XIV. The End.Copyright
The Railway Children
E. Nesbit
Chapter I. The beginning of things.
They were not railway children to begin with. I don't suppose
they had ever thought about railways except as a means of getting
to Maskelyne and Cook's, the Pantomime, Zoological Gardens, and
Madame Tussaud's. They were just ordinary suburban children, and
they lived with their Father and Mother in an ordinary
red-brick-fronted villa, with coloured glass in the front door, a
tiled passage that was called a hall, a bathroom with hot and cold
water, electric bells, French windows, and a good deal of white
paint, and 'every modern convenience', as the house-agents
say.There were three of them. Roberta was the eldest. Of course,
Mothers never have favourites, but if their Mother HAD had a
favourite, it might have been Roberta. Next came Peter, who wished
to be an Engineer when he grew up; and the youngest was Phyllis,
who meant extremely well.Mother did not spend all her time in paying dull calls to
dull ladies, and sitting dully at home waiting for dull ladies to
pay calls to her. She was almost always there, ready to play with
the children, and read to them, and help them to do their
home-lessons. Besides this she used to write stories for them while
they were at school, and read them aloud after tea, and she always
made up funny pieces of poetry for their birthdays and for other
great occasions, such as the christening of the new kittens, or the
refurnishing of the doll's house, or the time when they were
getting over the mumps.These three lucky children always had everything they needed:
pretty clothes, good fires, a lovely nursery with heaps of toys,
and a Mother Goose wall-paper. They had a kind and merry nursemaid,
and a dog who was called James, and who was their very own. They
also had a Father who was just perfect—never cross, never unjust,
and always ready for a game—at least, if at any time he was NOT
ready, he always had an excellent reason for it, and explained the
reason to the children so interestingly and funnily that they felt
sure he couldn't help himself.You will think that they ought to have been very happy. And
so they were, but they did not know HOW happy till the pretty life
in the Red Villa was over and done with, and they had to live a
very different life indeed.The dreadful change came quite suddenly.Peter had a birthday—his tenth. Among his other presents was
a model engine more perfect than you could ever have dreamed of.
The other presents were full of charm, but the Engine was fuller of
charm than any of the others were.Its charm lasted in its full perfection for exactly three
days. Then, owing either to Peter's inexperience or Phyllis's good
intentions, which had been rather pressing, or to some other cause,
the Engine suddenly went off with a bang. James was so frightened
that he went out and did not come back all day. All the Noah's Ark
people who were in the tender were broken to bits, but nothing else
was hurt except the poor little engine and the feelings of Peter.
The others said he cried over it—but of course boys of ten do not
cry, however terrible the tragedies may be which darken their lot.
He said that his eyes were red because he had a cold. This turned
out to be true, though Peter did not know it was when he said it,
the next day he had to go to bed and stay there. Mother began to be
afraid that he might be sickening for measles, when suddenly he sat
up in bed and said:"I hate gruel—I hate barley water—I hate bread and milk. I
want to get up and have something REAL to eat.""What would you like?" Mother asked."A pigeon-pie," said Peter, eagerly, "a large pigeon-pie. A
very large one."So Mother asked the Cook to make a large pigeon-pie. The pie
was made. And when the pie was made, it was cooked. And when it was
cooked, Peter ate some of it. After that his cold was better.
Mother made a piece of poetry to amuse him while the pie was being
made. It began by saying what an unfortunate but worthy boy Peter
was, then it went on:He had an engine that he
loved With all his heart
and soul, And if he had a wish on
earth It was to keep it
whole. One day—my friends, prepare
your minds; I'm coming to the
worst— Quite suddenly a screw went
mad, And then the
boiler burst! With gloomy face he picked it
up And took it to his
Mother, Though even he could not
suppose That she could
make another; For those who perished on the
line He did not seem to
care, His engine being more to
him Than all the
people there. And now you see the reason
why Our Peter has been
ill: He soothes his soul with
pigeon-pie His gnawing grief
to kill. He wraps himself in blankets
warm And sleeps in bed
till late, Determined thus to
overcome His miserable
fate. And if his eyes are rather
red, His cold must just
excuse it: Offer him pie; you may be
sure He never will
refuse it.Father had been away in the country for three or four days.
All Peter's hopes for the curing of his afflicted Engine were now
fixed on his Father, for Father was most wonderfully clever with
his fingers. He could mend all sorts of things. He had often acted
as veterinary surgeon to the wooden rocking-horse; once he had
saved its life when all human aid was despaired of, and the poor
creature was given up for lost, and even the carpenter said he
didn't see his way to do anything. And it was Father who mended the
doll's cradle when no one else could; and with a little glue and
some bits of wood and a pen-knife made all the Noah's Ark beasts as
strong on their pins as ever they were, if not
stronger.Peter, with heroic unselfishness, did not say anything about
his Engine till after Father had had his dinner and his
after-dinner cigar. The unselfishness was Mother's idea—but it was
Peter who carried it out. And needed a good deal of patience,
too.At last Mother said to Father, "Now, dear, if you're quite
rested, and quite comfy, we want to tell you about the great
railway accident, and ask your advice.""All right," said Father, "fire away!"So then Peter told the sad tale, and fetched what was left of
the Engine."Hum," said Father, when he had looked the Engine over very
carefully.The children held their breaths."Is there NO hope?" said Peter, in a low, unsteady
voice."Hope? Rather! Tons of it," said Father, cheerfully; "but
it'll want something besides hope—a bit of brazing say, or some
solder, and a new valve. I think we'd better keep it for a rainy
day. In other words, I'll give up Saturday afternoon to it, and you
shall all help me.""CAN girls help to mend engines?" Peter asked
doubtfully."Of course they can. Girls are just as clever as boys, and
don't you forget it! How would you like to be an engine-driver,
Phil?""My face would be always dirty, wouldn't it?" said Phyllis,
in unenthusiastic tones, "and I expect I should break
something.""I should just love it," said Roberta—"do you think I could
when I'm grown up, Daddy? Or even a stoker?""You mean a fireman," said Daddy, pulling and twisting at the
engine. "Well, if you still wish it, when you're grown up, we'll
see about making you a fire-woman. I remember when I was a
boy—"Just then there was a knock at the front door."Who on earth!" said Father. "An Englishman's house is his
castle, of course, but I do wish they built semi-detached villas
with moats and drawbridges."Ruth—she was the parlour-maid and had red hair—came in and
said that two gentlemen wanted to see the master."I've shown them into the Library, Sir," said
she."I expect it's the subscription to the Vicar's testimonial,"
said Mother, "or else it's the choir holiday fund. Get rid of them
quickly, dear. It does break up an evening so, and it's nearly the
children's bedtime."But Father did not seem to be able to get rid of the
gentlemen at all quickly."I wish we HAD got a moat and drawbridge," said Roberta;
"then, when we didn't want people, we could just pull up the
drawbridge and no one else could get in. I expect Father will have
forgotten about when he was a boy if they stay much
longer."Mother tried to make the time pass by telling them a new
fairy story about a Princess with green eyes, but it was difficult
because they could hear the voices of Father and the gentlemen in
the Library, and Father's voice sounded louder and different to the
voice he generally used to people who came about testimonials and
holiday funds.Then the Library bell rang, and everyone heaved a breath of
relief."They're going now," said Phyllis; "he's rung to have them
shown out."But instead of showing anybody out, Ruth showed herself in,
and she looked queer, the children thought."Please'm," she said, "the Master wants you to just step into
the study. He looks like the dead, mum; I think he's had bad news.
You'd best prepare yourself for the worst, 'm—p'raps it's a death
in the family or a bank busted or—""That'll do, Ruth," said Mother gently; "you can
go."Then Mother went into the Library. There was more talking.
Then the bell rang again, and Ruth fetched a cab. The children
heard boots go out and down the steps. The cab drove away, and the
front door shut. Then Mother came in. Her dear face was as white as
her lace collar, and her eyes looked very big and shining. Her
mouth looked like just a line of pale red—her lips were thin and
not their proper shape at all."It's bedtime," she said. "Ruth will put you to
bed.""But you promised we should sit up late tonight because
Father's come home," said Phyllis."Father's been called away—on business," said Mother. "Come,
darlings, go at once."They kissed her and went. Roberta lingered to give Mother an
extra hug and to whisper:"It wasn't bad news, Mammy, was it? Is anyone
dead—or—""Nobody's dead—no," said Mother, and she almost seemed to
push Roberta away. "I can't tell you anything tonight, my pet. Go,
dear, go NOW."So Roberta went.Ruth brushed the girls' hair and helped them to undress.
(Mother almost always did this herself.) When she had turned down
the gas and left them she found Peter, still dressed, waiting on
the stairs."I say, Ruth, what's up?" he asked."Don't ask me no questions and I won't tell you no lies," the
red-headed Ruth replied. "You'll know soon enough."Late that night Mother came up and kissed all three children
as they lay asleep. But Roberta was the only one whom the kiss
woke, and she lay mousey-still, and said nothing."If Mother doesn't want us to know she's been crying," she
said to herself as she heard through the dark the catching of her
Mother's breath, "we WON'T know it. That's all."When they came down to breakfast the next morning, Mother had
already gone out."To London," Ruth said, and left them to their
breakfast."There's something awful the matter," said Peter, breaking
his egg. "Ruth told me last night we should know soon
enough.""Did you ASK her?" said Roberta, with scorn."Yes, I did!" said Peter, angrily. "If you could go to bed
without caring whether Mother was worried or not, I couldn't. So
there.""I don't think we ought to ask the servants things Mother
doesn't tell us," said Roberta."That's right, Miss Goody-goody," said Peter, "preach
away.""I'M not goody," said Phyllis, "but I think Bobbie's right
this time.""Of course. She always is. In her own opinion," said
Peter."Oh, DON'T!" cried Roberta, putting down her egg-spoon;
"don't let's be horrid to each other. I'm sure some dire calamity
is happening. Don't let's make it worse!""Who began, I should like to know?" said Peter.Roberta made an effort, and answered:—"I did, I suppose, but—""Well, then," said Peter, triumphantly. But before he went to
school he thumped his sister between the shoulders and told her to
cheer up.The children came home to one o'clock dinner, but Mother was
not there. And she was not there at tea-time.It was nearly seven before she came in, looking so ill and
tired that the children felt they could not ask her any questions.
She sank into an arm-chair. Phyllis took the long pins out of her
hat, while Roberta took off her gloves, and Peter unfastened her
walking-shoes and fetched her soft velvety slippers for
her.When she had had a cup of tea, and Roberta had put
eau-de-Cologne on her poor head that ached, Mother
said:—"Now, my darlings, I want to tell you something. Those men
last night did bring very bad news, and Father will be away for
some time. I am very worried about it, and I want you all to help
me, and not to make things harder for me.""As if we would!" said Roberta, holding Mother's hand against
her face."You can help me very much," said Mother, "by being good and
happy and not quarrelling when I'm away"—Roberta and Peter
exchanged guilty glances—"for I shall have to be away a good
deal.""We won't quarrel. Indeed we won't," said everybody. And
meant it, too."Then," Mother went on, "I want you not to ask me any
questions about this trouble; and not to ask anybody else any
questions."Peter cringed and shuffled his boots on the
carpet."You'll promise this, too, won't you?" said
Mother."I did ask Ruth," said Peter, suddenly. "I'm very sorry, but
I did.""And what did she say?""She said I should know soon enough.""It isn't necessary for you to know anything about it," said
Mother; "it's about business, and you never do understand business,
do you?""No," said Roberta; "is it something to do with Government?"
For Father was in a Government Office."Yes," said Mother. "Now it's bed-time, my darlings. And
don't YOU worry. It'll all come right in the end.""Then don't YOU worry either, Mother," said Phyllis, "and
we'll all be as good as gold."Mother sighed and kissed them."We'll begin being good the first thing tomorrow morning,"
said Peter, as they went upstairs."Why not NOW?" said Roberta."There's nothing to be good ABOUT now, silly," said
Peter."We might begin to try to FEEL good," said Phyllis, "and not
call names.""Who's calling names?" said Peter. "Bobbie knows right enough
that when I say 'silly', it's just the same as if I said
Bobbie.""WELL," said Roberta."No, I don't mean what you mean. I mean it's just a—what is
it Father calls it?—a germ of endearment! Good night."The girls folded up their clothes with more than usual
neatness—which was the only way of being good that they could think
of."I say," said Phyllis, smoothing out her pinafore, "you used
to say it was so dull—nothing happening, like in books. Now
something HAS happened.""I never wanted things to happen to make Mother unhappy,"
said Roberta. "Everything's perfectly horrid."Everything continued to be perfectly horrid for some
weeks.Mother was nearly always out. Meals were dull and dirty. The
between-maid was sent away, and Aunt Emma came on a visit. Aunt
Emma was much older than Mother. She was going abroad to be a
governess. She was very busy getting her clothes ready, and they
were very ugly, dingy clothes, and she had them always littering
about, and the sewing-machine seemed to whir—on and on all day and
most of the night. Aunt Emma believed in keeping children in their
proper places. And they more than returned the compliment. Their
idea of Aunt Emma's proper place was anywhere where they were not.
So they saw very little of her. They preferred the company of the
servants, who were more amusing. Cook, if in a good temper, could
sing comic songs, and the housemaid, if she happened not to be
offended with you, could imitate a hen that has laid an egg, a
bottle of champagne being opened, and could mew like two cats
fighting. The servants never told the children what the bad news
was that the gentlemen had brought to Father. But they kept hinting
that they could tell a great deal if they chose—and this was not
comfortable.One day when Peter had made a booby trap over the bath-room
door, and it had acted beautifully as Ruth passed through, that
red-haired parlour-maid caught him and boxed his ears."You'll come to a bad end," she said furiously, "you nasty
little limb, you! If you don't mend your ways, you'll go where your
precious Father's gone, so I tell you straight!"Roberta repeated this to her Mother, and next day Ruth was
sent away.Then came the time when Mother came home and went to bed and
stayed there two days and the Doctor came, and the children crept
wretchedly about the house and wondered if the world was coming to
an end.Mother came down one morning to breakfast, very pale and with
lines on her face that used not to be there. And she smiled, as
well as she could, and said:—"Now, my pets, everything is settled. We're going to leave
this house, and go and live in the country. Such a ducky dear
little white house. I know you'll love it."A whirling week of packing followed—not just packing clothes,
like when you go to the seaside, but packing chairs and tables,
covering their tops with sacking and their legs with
straw.All sorts of things were packed that you don't pack when you
go to the seaside. Crockery, blankets, candlesticks, carpets,
bedsteads, saucepans, and even fenders and fire-irons.The house was like a furniture warehouse. I think the
children enjoyed it very much. Mother was very busy, but not too
busy now to talk to them, and read to them, and even to make a bit
of poetry for Phyllis to cheer her up when she fell down with a
screwdriver and ran it into her hand."Aren't you going to pack this, Mother?" Roberta asked,
pointing to the beautiful cabinet inlaid with red turtleshell and
brass."We can't take everything," said Mother."But we seem to be taking all the ugly things," said
Roberta."We're taking the useful ones," said Mother; "we've got to
play at being Poor for a bit, my chickabiddy."When all the ugly useful things had been packed up and taken
away in a van by men in green-baize aprons, the two girls and
Mother and Aunt Emma slept in the two spare rooms where the
furniture was all pretty. All their beds had gone. A bed was made
up for Peter on the drawing-room sofa."I say, this is larks," he said, wriggling joyously, as
Mother tucked him up. "I do like moving! I wish we moved once a
month."Mother laughed."I don't!" she said. "Good night, Peterkin."As she turned away Roberta saw her face. She never forgot
it."Oh, Mother," she whispered all to herself as she got into
bed, "how brave you are! How I love you! Fancy being brave enough
to laugh when you're feeling like THAT!"Next day boxes were filled, and boxes and more boxes; and
then late in the afternoon a cab came to take them to the
station.Aunt Emma saw them off. They felt that THEY were seeing HER
off, and they were glad of it."But, oh, those poor little foreign children that she's going
to governess!" whispered Phyllis. "I wouldn't be them for
anything!"At first they enjoyed looking out of the window, but when it
grew dusk they grew sleepier and sleepier, and no one knew how long
they had been in the train when they were roused by Mother's
shaking them gently and saying:—"Wake up, dears. We're there."They woke up, cold and melancholy, and stood shivering on the
draughty platform while the baggage was taken out of the train.
Then the engine, puffing and blowing, set to work again, and
dragged the train away. The children watched the tail-lights of the
guard's van disappear into the darkness.This was the first train the children saw on that railway
which was in time to become so very dear to them. They did not
guess then how they would grow to love the railway, and how soon it
would become the centre of their new life, nor what wonders and
changes it would bring to them. They only shivered and sneezed and
hoped the walk to the new house would not be long. Peter's nose was
colder than he ever remembered it to have been before. Roberta's
hat was crooked, and the elastic seemed tighter than usual.
Phyllis's shoe-laces had come undone."Come," said Mother, "we've got to walk. There aren't any
cabs here."The walk was dark and muddy. The children stumbled a little
on the rough road, and once Phyllis absently fell into a puddle,
and was picked up damp and unhappy. There were no gas-lamps on the
road, and the road was uphill. The cart went at a foot's pace, and
they followed the gritty crunch of its wheels. As their eyes got
used to the darkness, they could see the mound of boxes swaying
dimly in front of them.A long gate had to be opened for the cart to pass through,
and after that the road seemed to go across fields—and now it went
down hill. Presently a great dark lumpish thing showed over to the
right."There's the house," said Mother. "I wonder why she's shut
the shutters.""Who's SHE?" asked Roberta."The woman I engaged to clean the place, and put the
furniture straight and get supper."There was a low wall, and trees inside."That's the garden," said Mother."It looks more like a dripping-pan full of black cabbages,"
said Peter.The cart went on along by the garden wall, and round to the
back of the house, and here it clattered into a cobble-stoned yard
and stopped at the back door.There was no light in any of the windows.Everyone hammered at the door, but no one came.The man who drove the cart said he expected Mrs. Viney had
gone home."You see your train was that late," said he."But she's got the key," said Mother. "What are we to
do?""Oh, she'll have left that under the doorstep," said the cart
man; "folks do hereabouts." He took the lantern off his cart and
stooped."Ay, here it is, right enough," he said.He unlocked the door and went in and set his lantern on the
table."Got e'er a candle?" said he."I don't know where anything is." Mother spoke rather less
cheerfully than usual.He struck a match. There was a candle on the table, and he
lighted it. By its thin little glimmer the children saw a large
bare kitchen with a stone floor. There were no curtains, no
hearth-rug. The kitchen table from home stood in the middle of the
room. The chairs were in one corner, and the pots, pans, brooms,
and crockery in another. There was no fire, and the black grate
showed cold, dead ashes.As the cart man turned to go out after he had brought in the
boxes, there was a rustling, scampering sound that seemed to come
from inside the walls of the house."Oh, what's that?" cried the girls."It's only the rats," said the cart man. And he went away and
shut the door, and the sudden draught of it blew out the
candle."Oh, dear," said Phyllis, "I wish we hadn't come!" and she
knocked a chair over."ONLY the rats!" said Peter, in the dark.
Chapter II. Peter's coal-mine.
"What fun!" said Mother, in the dark, feeling for the matches
on the table. "How frightened the poor mice were—I don't believe
they were rats at all."
She struck a match and relighted the candle and everyone
looked at each other by its winky, blinky light.
"Well," she said, "you've often wanted something to happen
and now it has. This is quite an adventure, isn't it? I told Mrs.
Viney to get us some bread and butter, and meat and things, and to
have supper ready. I suppose she's laid it in the dining-room. So
let's go and see."
The dining-room opened out of the kitchen. It looked much
darker than the kitchen when they went in with the one candle.
Because the kitchen was whitewashed, but the dining-room was dark
wood from floor to ceiling, and across the ceiling there were heavy
black beams. There was a muddled maze of dusty furniture—the
breakfast-room furniture from the old home where they had lived all
their lives. It seemed a very long time ago, and a very long way
off.
There was the table certainly, and there were chairs, but
there was no supper.
"Let's look in the other rooms," said Mother; and they
looked. And in each room was the same kind of blundering
half-arrangement of furniture, and fire-irons and crockery, and all
sorts of odd things on the floor, but there was nothing to eat;
even in the pantry there were only a rusty cake-tin and a broken
plate with whitening mixed in it.
"What a horrid old woman!" said Mother; "she's just walked
off with the money and not got us anything to eat at all."
"Then shan't we have any supper at all?" asked Phyllis,
dismayed, stepping back on to a soap-dish that cracked
responsively.
"Oh, yes," said Mother, "only it'll mean unpacking one of
those big cases that we put in the cellar. Phil, do mind where
you're walking to, there's a dear. Peter, hold the light."
The cellar door opened out of the kitchen. There were five
wooden steps leading down. It wasn't a proper cellar at all, the
children thought, because its ceiling went up as high as the
kitchen's. A bacon-rack hung under its ceiling. There was wood in
it, and coal. Also the big cases.
Peter held the candle, all on one side, while Mother tried to
open the great packing-case. It was very securely nailed
down.
"Where's the hammer?" asked Peter.
"That's just it," said Mother. "I'm afraid it's inside the
box. But there's a coal-shovel—and there's the kitchen
poker."
And with these she tried to get the case open.
"Let me do it," said Peter, thinking he could do it better
himself. Everyone thinks this when he sees another person stirring
a fire, or opening a box, or untying a knot in a bit of
string.
"You'll hurt your hands, Mammy," said Roberta; "let
me."
"I wish Father was here," said Phyllis; "he'd get it open in
two shakes. What are you kicking me for, Bobbie?"
"I wasn't," said Roberta.
Just then the first of the long nails in the packing-case
began to come out with a scrunch. Then a lath was raised and then
another, till all four stood up with the long nails in them shining
fiercely like iron teeth in the candle-light.
"Hooray!" said Mother; "here are some candles—the very first
thing! You girls go and light them. You'll find some saucers and
things. Just drop a little candle-grease in the saucer and stick
the candle upright in it."
"How many shall we light?"
"As many as ever you like," said Mother, gaily. "The great
thing is to be cheerful. Nobody can be cheerful in the dark except
owls and dormice."
So the girls lighted candles. The head of the first match
flew off and stuck to Phyllis's finger; but, as Roberta said, it
was only a little burn, and she might have had to be a Roman martyr
and be burned whole if she had happened to live in the days when
those things were fashionable.
Then, when the dining-room was lighted by fourteen candles,
Roberta fetched coal and wood and lighted a fire.
"It's very cold for May," she said, feeling what a grown-up
thing it was to say.
The fire-light and the candle-light made the dining-room look
very different, for now you could see that the dark walls were of
wood, carved here and there into little wreaths and loops.
The girls hastily 'tidied' the room, which meant putting the
chairs against the wall, and piling all the odds and ends into a
corner and partly hiding them with the big leather arm-chair that
Father used to sit in after dinner.
"Bravo!" cried Mother, coming in with a tray full of things.
"This is something like! I'll just get a tablecloth and
then—"
The tablecloth was in a box with a proper lock that was
opened with a key and not with a shovel, and when the cloth was
spread on the table, a real feast was laid out on it.
Everyone was very, very tired, but everyone cheered up at the
sight of the funny and delightful supper. There were biscuits, the
Marie and the plain kind, sardines, preserved ginger, cooking
raisins, and candied peel and marmalade.
"What a good thing Aunt Emma packed up all the odds and ends
out of the Store cupboard," said Mother. "Now, Phil, DON'T put the
marmalade spoon in among the sardines."
"No, I won't, Mother," said Phyllis, and put it down among
the Marie biscuits.
"Let's drink Aunt Emma's health," said Roberta, suddenly;
"what should we have done if she hadn't packed up these things?
Here's to Aunt Emma!"
And the toast was drunk in ginger wine and water, out of
willow-patterned tea-cups, because the glasses couldn't be
found.
They all felt that they had been a little hard on Aunt Emma.
She wasn't a nice cuddly person like Mother, but after all it was
she who had thought of packing up the odds and ends of things to
eat.
It was Aunt Emma, too, who had aired all the sheets ready;
and the men who had moved the furniture had put the bedsteads
together, so the beds were soon made.
"Good night, chickies," said Mother. "I'm sure there aren't
any rats. But I'll leave my door open, and then if a mouse comes,
you need only scream, and I'll come and tell it exactly what I
think of it."
Then she went to her own room. Roberta woke to hear the
little travelling clock chime two. It sounded like a church clock
ever so far away, she always thought. And she heard, too, Mother
still moving about in her room.
Next morning Roberta woke Phyllis by pulling her hair gently,
but quite enough for her purpose.
"Wassermarrer?" asked Phyllis, still almost wholly
asleep.
"Wake up! wake up!" said Roberta. "We're in the new
house—don't you remember? No servants or anything. Let's get up and
begin to be useful. We'll just creep down mouse-quietly, and have
everything beautiful before Mother gets up. I've woke Peter. He'll
be dressed as soon as we are."
So they dressed quietly and quickly. Of course, there was no
water in their room, so when they got down they washed as much as
they thought was necessary under the spout of the pump in the yard.
One pumped and the other washed. It was splashy but
interesting.
"It's much more fun than basin washing," said Roberta. "How
sparkly the weeds are between the stones, and the moss on the
roof—oh, and the flowers!"
The roof of the back kitchen sloped down quite low. It was
made of thatch and it had moss on it, and house-leeks and stonecrop
and wallflowers, and even a clump of purple flag-flowers, at the
far corner.
"This is far, far, far and away prettier than Edgecombe
Villa," said Phyllis. "I wonder what the garden's like."
"We mustn't think of the garden yet," said Roberta, with
earnest energy. "Let's go in and begin to work."
They lighted the fire and put the kettle on, and they
arranged the crockery for breakfast; they could not find all the
right things, but a glass ash-tray made an excellent salt-cellar,
and a newish baking-tin seemed as if it would do to put bread on,
if they had any.
When there seemed to be nothing more that they could do, they
went out again into the fresh bright morning.
"We'll go into the garden now," said Peter. But somehow they
couldn't find the garden. They went round the house and round the
house. The yard occupied the back, and across it were stables and
outbuildings. On the other three sides the house stood simply in a
field, without a yard of garden to divide it from the short smooth
turf. And yet they had certainly seen the garden wall the night
before.
It was a hilly country. Down below they could see the line of
the railway, and the black yawning mouth of a tunnel. The station
was out of sight. There was a great bridge with tall arches running
across one end of the valley.
"Never mind the garden," said Peter; "let's go down and look
at the railway. There might be trains passing."
"We can see them from here," said Roberta, slowly; "let's sit
down a bit."
So they all sat down on a great flat grey stone that had
pushed itself up out of the grass; it was one of many that lay
about on the hillside, and when Mother came out to look for them at
eight o'clock, she found them deeply asleep in a contented,
sun-warmed bunch.
They had made an excellent fire, and had set the kettle on it
at about half-past five. So that by eight the fire had been out for
some time, the water had all boiled away, and the bottom was burned
out of the kettle. Also they had not thought of washing the
crockery before they set the table.
"But it doesn't matter—the cups and saucers, I mean," said
Mother. "Because I've found another room—I'd quite forgotten there
was one. And it's magic! And I've boiled the water for tea in a
saucepan."
The forgotten room opened out of the kitchen. In the
agitation and half darkness the night before its door had been
mistaken for a cupboard's. It was a little square room, and on its
table, all nicely set out, was a joint of cold roast beef, with
bread, butter, cheese, and a pie.
"Pie for breakfast!" cried Peter; "how perfectly
ripping!"
"It isn't pigeon-pie," said Mother; "it's only apple. Well,
this is the supper we ought to have had last night. And there was a
note from Mrs. Viney. Her son-in-law has broken his arm, and she
had to get home early. She's coming this morning at ten."
