y what a pet I was. My big brothers were already all out in the
world, in the navy, or the army, or at college, and my mother and I
generally lived by ourselves in a country village much farther north
than St. Austin's, and it was quite an event to us to leave our own home
for several months and settle ourselves down in lodgings in a strange
place.

'It seemed a very strange place to us, for we had not a single friend or
acquaintance in it, and at home in our village we knew everybody, and
everybody knew us, from the clergyman down to farmer Grinthwait's
sheep-dog, and nothing happened without our knowing it. I suppose I was
naturally of rather a sociable turn. I knew my mother used sometimes in
fun to call me "a little gossip," and I really very much missed the
sight of the accustomed friendly faces. We had been two days at St.
Austin's, and I had spent most of those two days at the window,
declaring to my mother that I should not feel so "strange" if I got to
know some of our neighbours by sight, if nothing more.

'But hitherto I had hardly succeeded even in this. There did not seem to
be any "neighbours" in the passers-by; they were just passers by who
never seemed to pass by again, and without anything particular to
distinguish them if they did. For St. Austin's was a busy little place,
and our house was on the South Esplanade, the favourite "promenade" for
the visitors, none of whom, gentlemen, ladies, or children had
particularly attracted me till the morning I first caught sight of my
funny little trots.

'I do think they would have attracted any one--any one certainly that
loved children. I fancy I see them now, the two dears, coming slowly and
solemnly along, each with a hand of their nurse, pulling _well_ back
from her, as if the effort to keep up, even with her deliberate rate of
walking, was almost too much for their fat little legs. They looked
exactly the same size, and were alike in everything, from their
dresses--which this first day were brown holland, very easy about the
bodies, very short and bunchy about the skirts--to the two white woolly
lambs, clasped manfully by each in his or her disengaged hand. Whether
they were boys or girls I could not tell in the least, and to this day I
do not know.

'"_Aren't_ they darlings, mamma?" I said.

'"They certainly are two funny little trots," she replied with a smile,
using my own expression.

'Mamma went back to her knitting, but I stayed by the window,