"Fanny's upstairs, p'raps," she said to herself. But no, she saw nothing of Fanny either on the way up or in the nursery. She did not feel dull or lonely now, however. She went to the back window and stood there for a minute looking at Crippley and Light Smiley, who were still there with the two babies. How funny it seemed that just a moment or two ago she had been down there actually talking to them! She could scarcely believe they were the very same children whom for so long she had known by sight.

"I am so glad I found the shoe," thought Peggy. "I wish, oh I do wish I could have a tea-party, and 'avite them all to tea. I daresay the father could carry Crippley upstairs – he's a very big man."

The thought of the father carried her thoughts to Brackenshire and the cottage on the hill, and she went into the day-nursery to look if the white spot was still to be seen. Yes, it was very bright and clear in the sunshine. Peggy gazed at it while a smile broke over her grave little face.

"How I do wish I could go there," she thought. "I wonder if the Smileys' father 'amembers about when he was a little boy, quite well. If he wasn't such a 'nugly man we might ask him to tell us stories about it."

Then she caught sight of the little scarlet shoes patiently standing on the window-sill.

"Dear little shoes," she said. "Peggy was neely forgetting you," and she took them up and kissed them. "Next time I go to see the Smileys," she thought, "I'll take the red shoes with me to show them. They

will

be pleased."

Then she got out her work and sat down to do it, placing her chair where she could see the hills from, the little shoes in her lap, feeling quite happy and contented. It seemed but a little while till Fanny came up to lay the cloth for Peggy's dinner. She had been working extra hard that morning, so as to be ready for the afternoon, and perhaps her head was a little confused. And so when Peggy began telling her her adventures she did not listen attentively, and answered "yes" and "no" without really knowing what she was saying.

"And so when I couldn't find you, Fanny, I just runned over with the 'nother shoe myself. And the poor little boy what was playing with the – the

not

the 'nother one, you know, did so cry, but I think he soon left off. And some day I'm going to ask mamma to let me 'avite them all to tea, for them to see the hills, and – " but here Peggy stopped, "the hills, you know, out of the window."

"Yes, dear; very nice," said Fanny. "You've been a good little girl to amuse yourself so quietly all the morning and give no trouble. I do wonder if the washerwoman knows to come for the nursery things, or if I must send," she went on, speaking, though aloud, to herself.

So Peggy felt perfectly happy about all she had done, not indeed that she had had the slightest misgiving.

The afternoon passed very pleasantly. It was quite a treat to Peggy to go a walk in a grown-up sort of way with Fanny, trotting by her side and talking comfortably, instead of having to take Hal's hand and lugging him along to keep well in front of the perambulator. They went up the Ferndale Road – a good way, farther than Peggy had ever been – so far indeed that she could scarcely understand how it was the hills did not seem much nearer than from the nursery window, but when she asked Fanny, Fanny said it was often so with hills – "nothing is more undependable." Peggy did not quite understand her, but put it away in her head to think about afterwards.

And when they came home it was nearly tea-time. Peggy felt quite comfortably tired when she had taken off her things and began to help Fanny to get tea ready for the boys, and when they arrived, all three very hungry and rather low-spirited at the thought of mamma and nurse being away, it was very nice for them to find the nursery quite as tidy as usual – indeed, perhaps, rather tidier – and Peggy, with a bright face, waiting with great pride to pour out tea for them.

"I think you're a very good housekeeper, Peg," said Terence, who was always the first to say something pleasant.

"Not so bad," agreed Thorold, patronisingly.

Baldwin sat still, looking before him solemnly, and considering his words, as was his way before

said anything.

"I think," he began at last, "I think that when I'm a big man I'll live in a cottage all alone with Peggy, and not no one else."

Peggy turned to him with sparkling eyes.

white

cottage, Baldwin dear; do say a white cottage," she entreated.

"I don't mind – a white cottage, but quite a tiny one," he replied.

"Hum!" said Thor, "that's very good-natured, I must say. There'll be no room for visitors, do you hear, Terry?"

"Oh yes; p'raps there will sometimes," said Peggy.

"You'll let your poor old Terry come, won't you, Peg-top?" said Terence, coaxingly.

"Dear Terry," said Peggy.

"Haven't you been very dull all day alone, by the bye?" Terence went on.

"Not very," Peggy replied. "Fanny took me a nice walk, and this morning – " But she stopped short before telling more. She was afraid that Thorold would laugh at her if she said how much she liked the children at the back, and then she had another reason. She wanted to "surprise" her brothers with a present of pipes for soap-bubbles, and very likely if she began talking about the back street at all it would make them think of Mrs. Whelan's, and then they might think of the pipes for themselves, which Peggy did not wish at all. She felt quite big and managing since she had paid a visit to the Smileys, and had a plan for going to buy the pipes "all by my own self."

"To-morrow," said Thorold, "there's to be a party at our school. We're all three to go."

Peggy's face fell.

"It's Saturday," she said. "I thought you'd have stayed with me."

Terence and Baldwin looked sorry.

I'll

stay at home," said Terry.

"No," said Thor, "I really don't think you can. They're counting on you for some of the games. Peg won't mind much for once, will you? I'm sorry too."

But before Peggy had time to reply, Baldwin broke in.

"I'll stay at home with Peg-top," he said, in his slow, distinct way. "It won't matter for me not going. I'm one of the little ones."

"And we'll go a nice walk, won't we, Baldwin?" said Peggy, quite happy again. "And I daresay we may have something nice for tea. I'll ask papa," she added to herself. "I'm sure he'll give me some pennies when he hears how good Baldwin is."

Miss Earnshaw came the next morning, and in the interest of being measured for her new spring frock, and watching it being cut out, and considering what she herself could make with the scraps which the young dressmaker gave her, the time passed very pleasantly for Peggy.

Miss Earnshaw admired the red shoes very much, and was interested to hear the story of the unknown lady who had given them to Peggy, and told a story of a similar adventure of her own when she was a little girl. And after dinner she, for Fanny was very busy, took Peggy and Baldwin out for a walk, and on their way home they went to the confectioner's and bought six halfpenny buns with the three pennies papa had given Peggy that morning. At least the children thought there were only six, but greatly to their surprise, when they undid the parcel on the nursery table, out rolled seven!

"Oh dear!" said Peggy, "she's gave us one too many. Must we go back to the shop with it, do you think, Miss Earnshaw? It's such a long way."

"I'll go," said Baldwin, beginning to fasten his boots again.

But Miss Earnshaw assured them it was all right.

"You always get thirteen of any penny buns or cakes for a shilling," she said; "and some shops will give you seven halfpenny ones for threepence. That's how it is. Did you never hear speak of a baker's dozen?"

Still Peggy did not feel satisfied.

"It isn't comfable," she said, giving herself a little wriggle – a trick of hers when she was put out. "Six would have been much nicer – just two for each," for Miss Earnshaw was to have tea with her and Baldwin.

The young dressmaker smiled.

"You

are

funny, Miss Peggy," she said. "Well, run off now and get ready for tea. We'll have Fanny bringing it up in a minute."

Peggy, the seventh bun still much on her mind, went slowly into the night nursery. Before beginning to take off her hat she strolled to the window and looked out. She had seen none of the children to-day. Now, Brown Smiley was standing just in front of the house, a basket on her arm, staring up and down the street. She had been "of an errant" for Mrs. Whelan, but Mrs. Whelan's door was locked; she was either asleep or counting her money, and the little girl knew that if she went on knocking the old woman would get into a rage, so she was "waitin' a bit." She liked better to do her waiting in the street, for she had been busy indoors all the morning, and it was a change to stand there looking about her.

Peggy gazed at her for a moment or two. Then an idea struck her. She ran back into the nursery and seized a bun – the odd bun.

"They're all mine, you know," she called out to Baldwin; "but we'll have two each still."

Baldwin looked up in surprise. "What are you going to do with it?" he began to say, but Peggy was out of sight.

She was soon downstairs, and easily opened the back door. But the yard door was fastened; she found some difficulty in turning the big key. She managed it at last, however, and saw to her delight that Brown Smiley was still there.

"Brown," began Peggy, but suddenly recollecting that the Smileys had real names, she stopped short, and ran across the street. "I can't 'amember your name," she exclaimed, breathlessly, "but I've brought you this," and she held out the bun.

Brown Smiley's face smiled all over.

"Lor', miss," she exclaimed. "You are kind, to be sure. Mayn't I give it to Lizzie? She's been very bad to-day, and she's eat next to nought. This 'ere'll be tasty-like."

"Lizzie," repeated Peggy, "which is Lizzie? Oh yes, I know, it's Crippley."

Brown Smiley looked rather hurt.

"It's not her fault, miss," she said. "I'd not like her to hear herself called like that."

Peggy's face showed extreme surprise.

"How do you mean?" she said. "I've made names for you all. I didn't know your real ones."

Brown Smiley looked at her and saw in a moment that there was nothing to be vexed about.

"To be sure, miss. Beg your pardon. Well, she that's lame's Lizzie, and me, I'm Matilda-Jane."

"Oh yes," interrupted Peggy. "Well, you may give her the bun if you like. It's very kind of you, for I meant it for you. I'd like – " she went on, "I'd like to give you more, but you see papa gaved me the pennies for us, and p'raps he'd be vexed."

"To be sure, to be sure, that'd never do," replied Matilda, quickly. "But oh, miss, we've been asking father about Brackenshire, and the cottages. 'Tis Brackenshire 'ills, sure enough, that's seen from your front."

"I knew that," said Peggy, in a superior way.

But Brown Smiley was too eager to feel herself snubbed.

"And oh, but he says it is bee-yutiful there – over on the 'ills. The air's that fresh, and there's flowers and big-leaved things as they calls ferns and brackens."

"And white cottages?" asked Peggy, anxiously.

"There's cottages – I didn't think for to ask if they was all white. My! If we could but go there some fine day. Father says it's not so far; many's the time he's walked over there and back again the next morning when he first comed to work here, you see, miss, and his 'ome was still over there like."

"Yes, in the white cottage," said Peggy. She had made up her mind that it was unkind not to "let it be" that the Smileys' father had lived in that very cottage, for he did seem to be a nice man in spite of his bigness and his dingy workman's clothes. If he wasn't nice and kind she didn't think the children would talk of him as they did.

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 a

beggar

. 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 Peggy from 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's

them, 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 course

God 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. "

it 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's

really

to do them good."

"Like when our doctor cutted poor Baby's tooths to make them come through," said Peggy, eagerly. "They was all

bleeding

, bleeding ever so, Miss Earnshaw. Baby didn't understand, and he was

very

angry. 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. "

don't sc'eam at the doctor. I speak to him quite goodly, 'cos, you see,

understand."

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."

CHAPTER VIII

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.

Nothing particular 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 all day," 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; but

sometimes

she 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 all go 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-morrow

was

rainy, 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."

know something that would please him," said Peggy, who was trembling between eagerness to tell and determination

not

to 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 —

quite

promised 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,

truly

tell 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 not such 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's

quite

near," 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 raining

very

hard."

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 at the 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, I should 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, "

how

nice! 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 pretty place 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