d you in the way I shall send you home
at once. I think that's all I have to say. Oh, there's one thing more.
If you ever drive out with me I wish you to remember that I dislike
talking in a carriage. I tell you all this because it's always better
to put things on a right footing from the first."

They had reached the house by this time, and as Iris followed Miss
Munnion meekly and silently upstairs she made up her mind on two points:
She would _never_ drive with her godmother unless she were absolutely
obliged, and she would very seldom ask Miss Munnion "why," or apply to
her in any way. For she seemed a most uninteresting person; her
features had a frozen, pinched-up look, and her eyes had no sort of
brightness in them. It was impossible to imagine that she ever laughed;
but at least, thought Iris, she might try and look cheerful. When she
was left alone she looked round her room with mingled awe and
satisfaction; everything was so bright and fresh and comfortable, and
there were actually easy-chairs! From the window she could see
far-stretching peaceful green fields, where the grass was getting tall
and thick. Cowslips would grow there, without doubt. The only sounds
were the twittering evening song of the birds, the cooing of the pigeons
in the stable-yard, and far off a distant cry of someone calling home
the cows to be milked. How Iris loved it all! How different it was to
Albert Street! If you looked out of the window from the bare little
room she shared with Susie and Dottie you saw nothing green at all, only
a row of staring ugly yellow houses--the most pleasant noise you could
hope for was the rattle of a cart or the grinding of an organ. Just at
this very minute she went on to remember it was tea-time in Albert
Street. Dinner for father and mother at one end of the table, and tea
for the children at the other. There was the big yellow jug full of
tea, ready mixed with milk and sugar, which Iris always poured out for
herself and her brothers and sisters. The only difference this evening
would be, that mother would pour it out instead, and cut the thick bread
and butter for the hungry boys. She saw it all, and as she saw it she
shook her head. "Certainly," she said to herself, "it is a bad thing to
be poor."

Dinner was at six o'clock, because it did not suit Mrs Fotheringham's
digestion to dine later; it was a solemn and delicately prepared little
meal, served by a maid who stepped about sil