"I can't 'amember your name," she exclaimed breathlessly....
But she spoke absently; Matilda-Jane's words had put thoughts in her head which seemed to make her almost giddy. Brown Smiley stared at her for a minute.
"How she do cling to them cottages being white," she thought to herself, "but there—if it pleases her! She's but a little one." "White if you please, miss," she replied, "though I can't say as I had it from father."
But suddenly a window above opened, and Mother Whelan's befrilled face was thrust out.
"What are ye about there then, and me fire burning itself away, and me tea ready, waiting for the bread? What's the young lady chatterin' to the likes o' you for? Go home, missy, darlin', go home."
The two children jumped as if they had been shot.
"Will she beat you?" whispered Peggy, looking very frightened. But Brown Smiley shook her little round head and laughed.
"She won't have a chance, and she dursn't not to say beat us—father'd be down on her—but she doesn't think nought of a good shakin'. But I'll push the basket in and run off if she's in a real wax."
"Good-bye, then. You must tell me lots more about the hills. Ask your father all you can," and so saying, Peggy flew home again.
"Where've you been, what did you do with the bun?" asked Baldwin, as soon as she came in to the nursery.
"I runned down with it, and gaved it to a little girl I saw in the street," said Peggy.
"Very kind and nice, I'm sure," said Miss Earnshaw. "Was it a beggar, Miss Peggy? You're sure your mamma and nurse wouldn't mind?" she added, rather anxiously.
"Oh no," said Peggy. "It's not abeggar. It's a proper little poor girl what nurse gives our nold clothes to."
"Oh," said Baldwin, "one of the children over the cobbler's, I suppose. But, Peggy," he was going on to say he didn't think his sister had ever been allowed to run down to the back street to speak to them, only he was so slow and so long of making up his mind that, as Fanny just then came in with the tea, which made a little bustle, nobody attended to him, and Miss Earnshaw remained quite satisfied that all was right.
The buns tasted very good—all the better to Peggyfrom the feeling that poor lame Lizzie was perhaps eating hers at that same moment, and finding it "tasty."
"Does lame people ever get quite better?" she asked the young dressmaker.
"That depends," Miss Earnshaw replied. "If it's through a fall or something that way, outside of them so to say, there's many as gets better. But if it'sinthem, in the constitution, there's many as stays lame all their lives through."
Peggy wriggled a little. She didn't like to think about it much. It sounded so mysterious.
"What part's that?" she asked; "that big word."
"Constitootion," said Baldwin, as if he was trying to spell "Constantinople."
Miss Earnshaw laughed. She lived alone with her mother, and was not much used to children. But she was so pleasant-tempered and gentle that she easily got into their ways.
"I shouldn't use such long words," she said. "Our constitution just means ourselves—the way we're made. A strong, healthy person is said to have a good constitution, and a weakly person has a poor one."
Baldwin and Peggy both sat silent for a minute, thinking over what she said.
"I don't see how that's to do with crippling," said Peggy at last. "Does you mean," she went on, "that p'raps lame people's legs is made wrong—by mistake, you know.In courseGod wouldn't do it of purpose, would he?"
Baldwin looked rather startled.
"Peggy," he said, "I don't think you should speak that way."
Peggy turned her gray eyes full upon him.
"I don't mean to say anything naughty," she said. "Isit naughty, Miss Earnshaw?"
The young dressmaker had herself been rather taken aback by Peggy's queer speech, and for a moment or two scarcely knew what to say. But then her face cleared again.
"God can't make mistakes, Miss Peggy," she said, "and He is always kind. All the same there's many things that seem like one or the other, I know. It must be that there's reasons for them that we can't see—like when a doctor hurts anybody, it seems unkind, but it'sreallyto do them good."
"Like when our doctor cutted poor Baby's tooths to make them come through," said Peggy, eagerly. "They was allbleeding, bleeding ever so, Miss Earnshaw. Baby didn't understand, and he wasveryangry. He always sc'eams at the doctor now. I almost think he'd like to kill him."
Baldwin opened his mouth wide at these bloodthirsty sentiments of Baby's. He was too shocked to speak.
"But it is only 'cos he doesn't understand," Peggy went on, placidly. "Idon't sc'eam at the doctor. I speak to him quite goodly, 'cos, you see,Iunderstand."
Baldwin closed his mouth again. He looked at Peggy with admiring respect.
"Yes," agreed Miss Earnshaw, greatly relieved at the turn their talk had taken, "that's just it, Miss Peggy. You couldn't have put it better."
"Peggy," said Baldwin, "when you're big you should be a clergymunt."
UNDER THE BIG UMBRELLA
"As I was going up Pippin Hill,Pippin Hill was dirty,There I met a pretty miss,And she dropped me a curtsey."Old Nursery Rhyme.
Nothingparticular happened during the next few days. Peggy's little life went on regularly and peacefully. Miss Earnshaw came every morning, and either she or Fanny took Peggy a walk every afternoon, except twice when it rained, to the little girl's great disappointment.
The second of these wet days happened to be Friday. Peggy stood at the front nursery window that morning looking out rather sadly. There were no hills—no white spot to be seen, of course.
"I wonder what the Smileys do when it rains allday," she said to herself. "I think I'll go to the back window and look if I can see any of them."
She had scarcely caught sight of her neighbours for some days. Only now and then she had seen the little ones tumbling about on the pavement, and once or twice the elder girls had brought their chairs down and sat there sewing. Lizzie had never come out. Peggy feared she must be still ill, and perhaps that made the others extra busy. It was not likely any of them would come out to-day, as it was raining so; butsometimesshe was able to see their faces at the window. And on a rainy day some of the little ones at least would perhaps be looking out.
She turned to go to the other nursery when Miss Earnshaw spoke to her.
"I wouldn't be so vexed at its being wet to-day, Miss Peggy, if I was you," she said. "It'll be much worse if it's wet to-morrow, for it's your brothers' half-holiday."
"Is to-morrow Saturday?" asked Peggy.
"To be sure it is. And I'm afraid I can't possibly stay here in the afternoon. I've got to go to see a lady some way off about some work. I wish she hadn't fixed for Saturday. If it's fine it won't matter so much. Fanny and I were saying you could allgo a nice walk—the young gentlemen and you, with her. But if it's wet I don't know however she'll manage you all in the house."
Suddenly Peggy's eyes began to sparkle.
"Miss Earnshaw," she said, "I've thought of something. If you'll ask Fanny, I'm sure she'll say we can; we've not had them for such a long time, and I've got my four pennies and a halfpenny—that'll get six, you know, in case any's brokened."
Miss Earnshaw looked at her and then began to laugh.
"Miss Peggy dear, you must tell me first what you mean," she said. "Your thoughts come so fast that they run ahead of your words. What is it you mean to get six of—not buns?"
"Buns!" repeated Peggy. "You can't blow bubbles with buns. No, of course I meant pipes. Nice white pipes to blow soap-bubbles."
"Oh, to be sure," said Miss Earnshaw. "That's a very good idea, Miss Peggy, in case to-morrow afternoon's wet, and I shouldn't wonder if it was."
"And you'll ask Fanny?"
"Of course; you can ask her yourself for that matter. I'm sure she's the last to grudge you anything that'd please you and the young gentlemen.And even if soap-bubbles are rather messy sometimes, it's easy to wipe up. It's not like anything dirty."
"Soap must be clean, mustn't it?" said Peggy, laughing. "But don't tell the boys, pelease, dear Miss Earnshaw. I do so want to 'apprise them. I can get the pipes to-morrow morning. I know where to get them," and quite happy, Peggy trotted off to take out her money-box and look to be quite sure that the three pennies and three halfpennies were there in safety, where for some weeks they had been waiting.
"Bless her heart," said the young dressmaker. "She is the sweetest little innocent darling that ever lived."
After looking over her pennies Peggy turned to the window. No, none of the Smileys were to be seen.
"Never mind," said Peggy to herself. "I'll p'raps see them to-morrow when I go for the pipes. I almost hope it'll be a wet day. It will be so nice to blow soap-bubbles. Only," and she sighed a little, "it does seem such a very long time since I sawed the white cottage."
To-morrowwasrainy, very rainy, with no look of"going to clear up" about it. The boys grumbled a good deal at breakfast at the doleful prospect of a dull half-holiday in the house.
"And papa's going away to-day till Monday," said Thorold; "so there'll be no going down to the dining-room to sit beside him while he's at dinner for a change."
"Poor papa," said Peggy, "he'll get very wet going such a long way."
"Nonsense, you little goose," said Thor, crossly. "People don't get wet in cabs and railway carriages."
"I forgot," said Peggy, meekly.
"You shouldn't call her a goose, Thor," said Terence. "It's very disagreeable to travel on a very rainy day. I've often heard people say so."
"I wish I was going to travel, rainy or not, I know that," grumbled Thorold. "Here we shall be mewed up in this stupid nursery all the afternoon with nothing to do."
"There's lots of things to do," said Baldwin. "I think I'll write a letter to mamma for one thing. And I want to tidy my treasure-box and——"
"You're a stupid," said Thorold. "You're too fat and slow to have any spirit in you."
"Now, Thorold, I say that's not fair," said Terry.
"Would it show spirit to grumble? You'd be down upon him if he did. There's no pleasing you."
"Iknow something that would please him," said Peggy, who was trembling between eagerness to tell and determinationnotto tell her "surprise."
"What?" said Thor, rather grumpily still.
"I'm not going to tell you till you come home. And it'll only be if it's a rainy afternoon," said Peggy.
Terence and Baldwin pricked up their ears.
"Oh, do tell us, Peg-top," they said.
But the little girl shook her head.
"No, no," she replied. "I've promised myself—quitepromised not."
"There's a reason for you," said Thor. But his tone was more good-natured now. He felt ashamed of being so cross when the little ones were so kind and bright.
"I'll really,trulytell you when you come back from school," said Peggy, and with this assurance the boys had to content themselves.
Miss Earnshaw arrived as usual, or rather not as usual, for she was dripping, poor thing, and had to leave her waterproof downstairs in the kitchen.
"What weather, Miss Peggy," she said, as she came in. "I thought it would be a wet day, but notsuch a pour. It is unfortunate that I have to go so far to-day, isn't it? And I'm sorry to leave you children alone too."
"Never mind," said Peggy, cheerily; "we'll be quite happy with the soap bubbles. I've got my money quite ready. Mayn't I go and get the pipes now?"
"Out, my dear? In such weather!" exclaimed Miss Earnshaw.
"Oh, but it'squitenear," said Peggy. "Just hop out of the door and you're there. The boys always buy their pipes there, and mamma goes there herself sometimes to see the old woman."
"Well, wait a bit, any way. It can't go on raining as fast as this all the morning surely. It's real cats and dogs."
Peggy looked up in surprise.
"Cats and dogs, Miss Earnshaw?" she repeated.
"Oh, bless you, my dear, it's only a way of speaking," said the dressmaker, a little impatiently, for she was not very much accustomed to children. "It just means rainingveryhard."
Peggy went to the window to look out for herself. Yes indeed it was raining very hard. The little girl could not help sighing a little as she gazed atthe thick even gray of the clouds, hiding like a curtain every trace of the distant hills she was so fond of.
"I won't put out the little red shoes to-day," she said to herself, "there's nothing for them to see."
Then other thoughts crept into her mind.
"I wonder if it's raining at the white cottage too," she said to herself. And aloud she asked a question.
"Miss Earnshaw, pelease, does it ever rain in the country?" she said.
"Rain in the country! I should rather think it did. Worse than in town, you might say—that's to say, where there's less shelter, you'll get wetter and dirtier in the country, only of course it's not the same kind of really black sooty rain. But as for mud in country lanes! I shall see something of it this afternoon, I expect."
"Oh, I'm so sorry," said Peggy. "I thought it never rained in the country. I thought it was always quite pretty and lovely," and she sighed deeply. "I wonder what people who live in little cottages in the country do all day when it rains," she said.
"Why, my dear, much the same as other folk, Ishould say. They have their rooms to clean, and their dinner to cook, and their children to look after. Still I daresay it'd be a bit drearier in the country of a right-down wet day like this, even than in town. I've never lived there myself, except for a week at a time at most, but mother was all her young days in the country."
"Everybody's fathers and mothers lived there," said Peggy, rather petulantly. "Why don't peoples let their children live there now?"
Miss Earnshaw laughed a little. Peggy did not like her to laugh in that way, and she gave herself a little wriggle, though poor Miss Earnshaw certainly did not mean to vex her.
"There are plenty of children in the country too, Miss Peggy," she said. "Mother's youngest sister has twelve."
"Twelve," repeated Peggy, "hownice! at least if there's lots of sisters among them, and no very little babies. Do they live over in that country?" she went on, pointing in the direction of the invisible hills, "that country called Brack—— You know the name."
"Brackenshire," said Miss Earnshaw, "no, my mother comes from much farther off. A very prettyplace it must be by what she says. Not but what Brackenshire's a pretty country too. I've been there several times with the Sunday school for a treat."
"And did you see the hills and the white cottages?" asked Peggy breathlessly.
"Oh yes, the hills are beautiful, and there's lots of cottages of all kinds. They look pretty among the trees, even though they're only poor little places, most of them."
"The white ones is the prettiest," said Peggy, as if she knew all about it.
"Yes, I daresay," said Miss Earnshaw, without paying much attention; she had got to rather a difficult part of the sleeve she was making.
"Did you ever walk all the way there when you was a little girl?" Peggy went on.
"Oh yes, of course," Miss Earnshaw replied, without the least idea of what she was answering.
"Really!" said Peggy, "how nice!" Then seeing that the dressmaker was absorbed in her work: "Miss Earnshaw," she said, "I'm going for the pipes now. It isn't rainingquiteso fast, and I'll not be long."
"Very well, my dear," Miss Earnshaw replied, and Peggy went off to fetch her pennies from the drawer in the other nursery where she kept them.She had a new idea in her head, an idea which Miss Earnshaw's careless words had helped to put there, little as she knew it.
"If I see the Smileys," thought Peggy, "I'll tell them what she said."
She glanced out of the window, dear me, how lucky! There stood Brown Smiley looking out at the door, as if she were hesitating before making a plunge into the dripping wet street. It did seem at the back as if it were raining faster than in front. Peggy opened the cupboard and took out her little cloak which was hanging there.
"I won't put on my hat," she thought, "'cos nurse says the rain spoils the feavers. I'll get a numbrella downstairs, and then Ican'tget wet, and here's my pennies all right in my pocket. I do hope Brown Smiley will wait till I get down."
She made all the haste she could, and found, as she expected, an umbrella in the stand downstairs. It was not very easy to open, but she succeeded at last, then came, however, another difficulty, she could not get herself and the umbrella through the back door together.
"Dear me," thought Peggy, "I wonder how people does with their numbrellas. Theymustopen them inthe house, else they'd get wet standing outside while they're doing it. I never looked to see how nurse does, but then we almost never go out when it's rainy. I 'appose it's one of the hard things big peoples has to learn. Oh, dear!won'tit come through?"
No, she couldn't manage it, at least not with herself under it. At last a brilliant idea struck Peggy; anything was better than closing the tiresome thing now shehadgot it opened—she would send it first and follow after herself. So the umbrella was passed through, and went slipping down the two or three steps that led into the yard, where it lay gaping up reproachfully at Peggy, who felt inclined to call out "Never mind, poor thing, I'm coming d'reckly."
And as "d'reckly" as possible she did come, carefully closing the door behind her, for fear the rain should get into the house, which, together with the picking up of the umbrella, far too big and heavy a one for a tiny girl, took so long that I am afraid a good many drops had time to fall on the fair uncovered head before it got under shelter again.
But little cared Peggy. She felt as proud as a peacock, the umbrella representing the tail, you understand, when she found herself outside the yard door,which behaved very amiably, fairly under weigh for her voyage across the street. She could see nothing before her; fortunately, however, no carriages or carts ever came down the narrow back way.
Half-way over Peggy stopped short—she had forgotten to look if Brown Smiley was still standing there. It was not easy to get a peep from under the umbrella, without tilting it and herself backwards on to the muddy road, but with great care Peggy managed it. Ah dear, what a disappointment! There was no little girl in front of the cobbler's window, but glancing to one side, Peggy caught sight of the small figure with a shawl of "mother's" quaintly drawn over the head, trotting away down the street. With a cry Peggy dashed after her.
"Oh, Brown Smiley," she called out, "do come back. I'm too frightened to go to buy the pipes alone," for what with her struggles and her excitement, the little damsel's nerves were rather upset. "Oh, Brown Smiley—no—no, that's not her name, oh whatisyour name, Brown Smiley?" and on along the rough pavement behind the little messenger she rushed, if indeed poor Peggy's toddling, flopping from one side to another progress, could possibly be called "rushing."
"But an umbrella rolling itself about on the pavement....
It came to an end quickly—the paving-stones were rough and uneven, the small feet had only "my noldest house-shoes" to protect them, and the "numbrella" was sadly in the way; there came suddenly a sharp cry, so piercing and distressful that even Matilda-Jane, accustomed as she was to childish sounds of woe of every kind and pitch, was startled enough to turn round and look behind her.
"Can it be Halfred come a-runnin' after me?" she said to herself. But the sight that met her eyes puzzled her so, that at the risk of Mother Whelan's scoldings for being so long, she could not resist running back to examine for herself the strange object. This was nothing more nor less than an umbrella, and an umbrella in itself is not an uncommon sight. But an umbrella rolling itself about on the pavement, an umbrella from which proceeds most piteous wails, an umbrella from underneath which, when you get close to it, you see two little feet sticking out and by degrees two neat black legs, and then a muddle of short skirts, which by rights should be draping the legs, but have somehow got all turned upside down like a bird's feathers ruffled up the wrong way—suchan umbrella, or perhaps I should say an umbrella in such circumstances,certainly may be called a strange sight, may it not?
Matilda-Jane Simpkins, for that was Brown Smiley's whole long name, thought so any way, for she stood stock still, staring, and the only thing she could collect herself enough to say was, "Lor'!"
But her state of stupefaction only lasted half a moment. She was a practical and business-like little person; before there was time for another cry for help, she had disentangled the umbrella and its owner, and set the latter on her feet again, sobbing piteously, and dreadfully dirty and muddy, but otherwise not much the worse.
Then Matilda-Jane gave vent to another exclamation.
"Bless me, missy, it'syou!" she cried. "Whatever are you a-doing of to be out in the rain all alone, with no 'at and a humbrella four sizes too big for the likes of you, and them paper-soled things on yer feet? and, oh my! ain't yer frock muddy? What'll your folk say to you? Or is they all away and left you and the cat to keep 'ouse?"
"I was running after you, Brown Smiley," sobbed Peggy. She could not quite make out if Matilda-Jane was making fun of her or not, and,indeed, to do Matilda justice, she had no such intention. "I was running afteryou," Peggy repeated, "and youwouldn'tstop, and I couldn't run fast 'cos of the numbrella, and so I felled down."
"Never mind, missy dear, you'll be none the worse, you'll see. Only, will they give it you when you go home for dirtying of your frock?"
"Give it me?" repeated Peggy.
"Yes, give it you; will you get it—will you catch it?" said Matilda, impatiently.
"I don't know what you mean," Peggy replied.
Matilda wasted no more words on her. She took her by the arm, umbrella and all, and trotted her down the street again till they had reached the Smiley mansion. Then she drew Peggy inside the doorway of the passage, whence a stair led up to Mrs. Whelan's, and to the Simpkins's own rooms above that again, and having shut up the umbrella with such perfect ease that Peggy gazed at her in admiration, she tried to explain her meaning.
"Look 'ere now, miss;" she said, "which'll you do—go straight over-the-way 'ome, just as you are, or come in along ofhuzand get yerself cleaned up a bit?"
"Oh, I'll go in with you, pelease," sobbed Peggy.
"P'raps Miss Earnshaw wouldn't scold me. She let me come, and I didn't fell down on purpose. But Iknowshe wouldn't let me come out again—I'm sure she wouldn't, and I do so want to get the pipes my own self. You'll take me to Mrs. Whelan's, won't you, dear Brown Smiley?"
"I'll catch it when she sees I haven't done her errant," said Matilda. "But never mind; she'll not be so bad with you there, maybe. Come up with me, missy, and I'll get Rebecca to wipe you a bit," and she began the ascent of the narrow staircase, followed by Peggy.
THE OPPOSITE HOUSE
"There was an old woman that lived in a shoe,She had so many children she didn't know what to do."Nursery Rhymes.
Inspite of her misfortunes, Peggy could not help feeling very pleased at finding herself at last inside the house she had watched so often from the outside. It was certainly not a pretty house—a big person would probably have thought it a very poor and uninteresting one; but it was not dirty. The old wooden steps were scrubbed down once a week regularly, so there was nothing to strike the little girl as disagreeable, and it seemed delightfully queer and mysterious as she climbed the steep, uneven staircase, which grew darker and darker as they went on, so that but for Brown Smiley's voice in front, Peggy would not have had the least idea where she was going.
"There's Mother Whelan's door," Matilda said in a half whisper, as if afraid of the old woman's pouncing out upon them, and Peggy wondered how she knew it, for to her everything was perfectly dark; "but we'll go upstairs first to Rebecca," and on they climbed.
Suddenly, what seemed for a moment a blaze of brilliant light from the contrast with the darkness where they were, broke upon them. Peggy quite started. But it was only the opening of a door.
"Is that you, Matilda-Jane? My, but you have been sharp. I should think old Whelan 'ud be pleased for onst."
The speaker was Reddy; she stood in the doorway, her bare red arms shining, as they always did, from being so often up to the elbows in soap and water.
"Oh, Rebecca, don't say nothin', but I've not been of my errant yet. Now, don't ye begin at me—'tweren't of my fault. I was a-'urryin' along when I saw miss 'ere a-rollin' in the wet with her humberellar, and I 'ad to pick her up. She's that muddy we were afeard they'd give it her over the way—her mar's away. So I told her as you'd tidy her up a bit. Come along, missy. Rebecca's got agood 'eart, has Rebecca; she'll clean you nicely, you'll see."
For at the sound of Rebecca's sharp voice poor Peggy had slunk back into the friendly gloom of the staircase. But she came creeping forward now, so that Reddy saw her.
"Lor'!" said the big girl, "little miss from the hopposite winder to be sure."
This quite restored Peggy's courage.
"Have you seen me at the window?" she said. "How funny! I've looked at you lotses and lotses of times, but I never thought of you looking at me."
To which both sisters replied with their favourite exclamation, "Lor'!"
Just then came a voice from inside.
"Shut the door there, Rebecca, can't you? If there's one thing I can't abide, and you might know it, it's a hopen door, and the draught right on baby's head."
Rebecca took Peggy by the hand and drew her into the room, and while she was relating the story of little missy's misfortunes to her mother, little missy looked round her with the greatest interest.
It was a small room, but oh, how full of children! Dinner was being got ready "against father and the boys coming home," Matilda said, but where fatherand the boys could possibly find space to stand, much less to sit, Peggy lay awake wondering for a long time that night. She counted over all those already present, and found they were all there except Lizzie, the lame girl. And besides the two babies and Alfred, whom she knew by sight, she was amazed to see a fourth, a very tiny doll of a thing—the tiniest thing she had ever seen, but which they all were as proud of as if there had never been a baby among them before. At this moment it was reposing in the arms of Mary-Hann; Light Smiley, whose real name was Sarah, you remember, was taking charge of the two big babies in one corner, while Reddy and her mother were busy at the fire, and "Halfred" was amusing himself quietly with some marbles, apparently his natural occupation.
What a lot of them! Peggy began to feel less sure that she would like to have as many sisters as the Smileys. Still they all looked happy, and their mother, whom Peggy had never seen before, had really a very kind face.
"I'll see to the pot, Rebecca," she said; "just you wipe missy's frock a bit. 'Twill be none the worse, you'll see. And so your dear mar's away missy. I 'ope the change'll do her good."
"Yes, thank you," said Peggy. "She's gone to the country. Did you ever live in the country? And was it in a white cottage?"
Mrs. Simpkins smiled.
"No, missy, I'm town-bred. 'Tis father as knows all about the country; he's a Brackenshire man."
"Oh yes," said Peggy, "I forgot. It's Miss Earnshaw's mother I was thinking of."
"But father," said Matilda, "hecan tell lots of tales about the country."
"I wish he was at home," said Peggy. "But I must go, now my frock's cleaned. Some day p'raps I'll come again. Thank you, Reddy," at which Rebecca, who had been vigorously rubbing Peggy's skirts, stared and looked as if she were going to say "Lor'!" "I'm going to buy soap-bubble pipes at Mrs. Whelan's," Peggy went on, for she was losing her shyness now; "that's what I comed out in the rain for. We're going to play at soap-bubbles this afternoon, 'cos it's too wet to go out a walk."
All the Smileys listened with great interest.
"Mayn't Brown—I mean Matilda-Jane—come with me, pelease?" said Peggy. "I'mrazerfrightened to go to buy them alone; sometimes that old woman does look so cross."
"She looks what she is then," said Reddy, "'cept for one thing; she's awful good to Lizzie. She's a-sittin' down there this very minute as is, is Lizzie, to be out o' the way like when mother and me's cleaning, you see, miss."
Brown Smiley's face had grown grave.
"I dursn't let Mother Whelan see as I've not gone," she said, "but if missy doesn't like to go alone—not as she'd be sharp to the likes of you, but still——"
"I'llgo," said little Sarah, Light Smiley, that is to say. "Jest you see to the childer will ye, Mary-Hann?" she shouted to the deaf sister. "I won't be harf a minute."
"And you, Matilda-Jane, off with you," said Rebecca, which advice Brown Smiley instantly followed.
Sarah took Peggy's hand to escort her down the dark staircase again. Light Smiley was, of all the family perhaps, Peggy's favourite. She was two years or so older than her little opposite neighbour, but she scarcely looked it, for both she and Brown Smiley were small and slight, and when you came to speak to them both, Sarah seemed a good deal younger than Matilda; she was so much lessmanaging and decided in manner, but on the present occasion Peggy would have preferred the elder Smiley, for to tell the truth her heart was beginning to beat much faster than usual at the thought of facing Mrs. Whelan in her den.
"Isn't you frightened, Light Smiley?" asked the little girl when the two stopped, and Peggy knew by this that they must be at the old woman's door.
"Oh no," Sarah replied. "Tisn't as if we'd been up to any mischief, you see. And Lizzie's there. She's mostly quiet when Lizzie's there."
So saying she pushed the door open. It had a bell inside, which forthwith began to tinkle loudly, and made Peggy start. This bell was the pride of Mrs. Whelan's heart; it made such a distinction, she thought, between her and the rest of the tenants of the house, and the more noisily it rang the better pleased she was. Sarah knew this, and gave the door a good shove, at the same time pulling Peggy into the room.
"What's it yer afther now, and what's become of Matilda-Jane?" called out the old woman, not, at the first moment, catching sight of Peggy.
"It's little missy from over-the-way," Sarahhastened to explain; "she's come to buy some pipes of you, Mother Whelan."
"To be sure," she said in her most gracious tone....
Mrs. Whelan looked at Peggy where she stood behind Sarah, gravely staring about her.
"To be sure," she said in her most gracious tone. "'Tis the beautiful pipes I have. And 'tis proud I am to say the purty young lady," and on she went with a long flattering speech about Peggy's likeness to her "swate mother," and inquiries after the lady's health, all the time she was reaching down from a high shelf an old broken cardboard box, containing her stock of clay pipes.
Peggy did not answer. In the first place, thanks to the old woman's Irish accent and queer way of speaking she did not understand a quarter of what she said. Then her eyes were busy gazing all about, and her nose was even less pleasantly occupied, for there was a very strong smell in the room. It was a sort of mixed smell of everything—not like the curious "everything" smell that one knows so well in a village shop in the country, which for my part I think rather nice—a smell of tea, and coffee, and bacon, and nuts, and soap, and matting, and brown holland, and spices, and dried herbs, all mixed together, but with a clean feeling about it—no, thesmell in Mrs. Whelan's was much stuffier and snuffier. For joined to the odour of all the things I have named was that of herrings and tobacco smoke, and, I rather fear, of whisky. And besides all this, I am very much afraid that not only a spring cleaning but a summer or autumn or winter cleaning, were unknown events in the old woman's room. No wonder that Peggy, fresh from the soft-soap-and-water smell of the Simpkins's upstairs, sniffed uneasily and wished Mrs. Whelan would be quick with the pipes; her head felt so queer and confused.
But looking round she caught sight of a very interesting object; this was Lizzie, rocking herself gently on her chair in a corner, and seeming quite at home. Peggy ran—no she couldn't run—the room was so crowded, for a counter stood across one end, and in the other a big square old bedstead, and between the two were a table and one or two chairs, and an old tumble-down chest of drawers—made her way over to Lizzie.
"How do you do, Crip—Lizzie, I mean? I hope your pains aren't very bad to-day?"
"Not so very, thank you, miss," said the poor girl. "It's nice and quiet in here, and the quiet does me a deal o' good."
Peggy sighed.
"I don't like being very quiet," she said. "I wish you could come over to the nursery; now that Hal and baby and nurse are away it's dreffully quiet."
"But you wouldn't care to change places with me, would you, missy?" said Lizzie. "I'm thinking you'd have noise enough if you were upstairs sometimes. My—it do go through one's head, to be sure."
Peggy looked very sympathising.
"Aren't you frightened ofher?" she whispered, nodding gently towards Mrs. Whelan.
"Not a bit of it," said Lizzie, also lowering her voice; "she's right down good to me, is the old body. She do scold now and then and no mistake, but bless you, she'd never lay a finger on me, and it's no wonder she's in a taking with the children when they kicks up a hextra row, so to say."
Peggy's mouth had opened gradually during this speech, and now it remained so. She could not understand half Lizzie's words, but she had no time to ask for an explanation, for just then Light Smiley called to her to come and look at the pipes which were by this time waiting for her on the counter.
They were the cleanest things in the room—the only clean things it seemed to Peggy as she lifted them up one by one to choose six very nice ones. And then she paid her pennies and ran back to shake hands with Lizzie and say good-bye to her—she wondered if she should shake hands with Mrs. Whelan too, but fortunately the old woman did not seem to expect it, and Peggy felt very thankful, for her brown wrinkled hands looked sadly dirty to the little girl, dirtier perhaps than they really were.
"I like your house much better than hers," said Peggy, when she and Light Smiley were down at the bottom of the stairs again; "it smells much nicer."
"Mother and Rebecca's all for scrubbing, that's certing," replied Sarah, with a smile of pleasure—of course all little girls like to hear their homes praised—"but she's not bad to Lizzie, is old Whelan," as if that settled the whole question, and Peggy felt she must not say any more about the dirty room.
Light Smiley felt it her duty to see "missy" safe across the street. Peggy's hands were laden with the precious pipes, and Sarah carried the big umbrella over the two of them. They chattered as they picked their way through the mud and stood for aminute or two at the yard-door of Peggy's house. Light Smiley peeped in.
"Lor'," she said, expressing her feelings in the same way as her sisters, "yours must be a fine house, missy. All that there back-yard for yerselves."
"You should see the droind-room, and mamma's room; there's a marble top to the washing-stand," said Peggy, with pride.
"Lor'," said Sarah again.
"Some day," Peggy went on, excited by Sarah's admiration, "someday when my mamma comes home, I'm going to ask her to let me have a tea-party of youall—in the nursery, you know. The nursery's nice too, at least I daresay you'd like it."
"Is that the winder where you sees us from?" asked Sarah. "Matilda-Jane says as how we could see you too quite plain at it if you put your face quite close to the glass."
"I can't," said Peggy. "There's the toilet-table close to the window—at least, it's really a chest of drawers, you know, but there's a looking-glass on the top and a white cover, so it's like a toilet-table for nurse, though it's too high up for me. I have to stand on a chair if I want to see myself popperly."
"Dear!" said Sarah sympathisingly.
"And I can only see you by scrooging into the corner, and the curting's there. No, you couldn't ever see me well up at the window. But that's not the nursery where we'd have tea. That's only the night nursery. The other one's to the front; that's the window where you can see the hills far away."
"In the country, where father used to live. Oh yes, I know. I heerd Matilda-Jane a-asking 'im about it," said Sarah.
"Oh, and did he tell you any more? Do ask him if it's really not far to get there," said Peggy, eagerly.
Sarah nodded.
"I won't forget," she said; "and then, missy, when you axes us to the tea-party, I'll be able to tell you all about it."
She did not mean to be cunning, poor little girl, but she was rather afraid Peggy might forget about the tea-party, and she thought it was not a bad plan to say something which might help to make her remember it.
"Yes," Peggy replied, "that would be lovely. Do make him tell all you can, Light Smiley. Oh, I do wish mamma would come home now, and I'dask her about the tea-party immediately. I'm sure she'd let me, for she likes us to be kind to poor people."
Sarah drew herself up a little at this.
"We're not—not to saypoorfolk," she said, with some dignity. "There's a many of us, and it's hard enough work, but still——"
"Oh, don't be vexed," said Peggy. "I know you're not like—like beggars, you know. And I thinkwe'rerather poor too. Mamma often says papa has to work hard."
Sarah grew quite friendly again.
"I take it folks isn't often rich when they've a lot of children," she began, but the sound of a window opening across the street made her start. "Bless me," she said, "I must run. There's Rebecca a-going to scold me for standing talking. Good-bye, miss, I'll not forget to ask father."
And Sarah darted away, carrying with her the umbrella, quite forgetting that it was Peggy's. Peggy forgot it too, and it was not raining so fast now, so there was less to remind her. She shut the door and ran across the yard. The house door still stood open, and she made her way up to the nursery without meeting any one.