rd, so that he came at every station to ask if
we wanted anything. We never did, but it felt rather grand. Altogether,
the journey was very nice, and we hadn't time to feel very sad at
leaving dear mums and Hebe, though all the way I kept thinking of my
last going there with mother.

It was a fine day, though not so bright as the other time. When we got
to Fewforest there was a big fly waiting for us, and a spring cart from
the farm for the luggage. And no sooner did Serry catch sight of it than
she tugged my arm, and said quite loud--

'Is that the red-eared boy, Jack?'

She _is_ so silly, I wonder he didn't hear her.

It _was_ he, sure enough, as red as ever, and grinning now as well, like
an old acquaintance. The driver of the fly, on the contrary, was a
rather grumpy man. I had been thinking of asking nurse to let me go
outside, but when I saw his face I didn't. No chance of _him_ letting me
drive part of the way, even though the horse was about a hundred years
old, and went jog-jogging along as if it meant to take a month to get to
Mossmoor. I can generally tell something about people by the look of
their faces.

So we all squashed inside--nurse and us four. It wasn't a very great
squash, for the fly was a regular old-fashioned roomy one. Once upon a
time I daresay it had been some lady's grand 'coach' in which she drove
about paying all her visits. I happened to say this to Anne, and she
liked the idea. She said she thought she would write a story, and call
it _The History of a Chariot_. I don't know if she ever has.

When we got to Mossmoor the stupid coachman was going to drive us into
the stable-yard, which would quite have stopped the niceness of our
first arriving, especially as I caught sight of dear old Mrs. Parsley
standing at the front door with her best cap on, all in a flutter to
welcome us. (I didn't call her 'dear old Mrs. Parsley' to myself _then_:
it's since I've got to know her. And I couldn't have told it was her
best cap; it wasn't for some time that we got to understand her caps.
They were like degrees of comparison, both upwards and downwards, for
she had always about six going at a time.) So I holloaed out to the
driver to stop at the little gate, and he did, though he growled and
grumbled. He _is_ so surly; his name's Griffin, and he and the fly
belong to the 'Yule Log' at Fewforest, North end. There's no inn at
South end. I was only just in time, for you can't turn, farther up the
lan