ar, and a newish baking-tin
seemed as if it would do to put bread on, if they had any.

When there seemed to be nothing more that they could do, they went out
again into the fresh bright morning.

"We'll go into the garden now," said Peter. But somehow they couldn't
find the garden. They went round the house and round the house. The yard
occupied the back, and across it were stables and outbuildings. On the
other three sides the house stood simply in a field, without a yard
of garden to divide it from the short smooth turf. And yet they had
certainly seen the garden wall the night before.

It was a hilly country. Down below they could see the line of the
railway, and the black yawning mouth of a tunnel. The station was out of
sight. There was a great bridge with tall arches running across one end
of the valley.

"Never mind the garden," said Peter; "let's go down and look at the
railway. There might be trains passing."

"We can see them from here," said Roberta, slowly; "let's sit down a
bit."

So they all sat down on a great flat grey stone that had pushed itself
up out of the grass; it was one of many that lay about on the hillside,
and when Mother came out to look for them at eight o'clock, she found
them deeply asleep in a contented, sun-warmed bunch.

They had made an excellent fire, and had set the kettle on it at about
half-past five. So that by eight the fire had been out for some time,
the water had all boiled away, and the bottom was burned out of the
kettle. Also they had not thought of washing the crockery before they
set the table.

"But it doesn't matter--the cups and saucers, I mean," said Mother.
"Because I've found another room--I'd quite forgotten there was one. And
it's magic! And I've boiled the water for tea in a saucepan."

The forgotten room opened out of the kitchen. In the agitation and half
darkness the night before its door had been mistaken for a cupboard's.
It was a little square room, and on its table, all nicely set out, was a
joint of cold roast beef, with bread, butter, cheese, and a pie.

"Pie for breakfast!" cried Peter; "how perfectly ripping!"

"It isn't pigeon-pie," said Mother; "it's only apple. Well, this is the
supper we ought to have had last night. And there was a note from Mrs.
Viney. Her son-in-law has broken his arm, and she had to get home early.
She's coming this morning at ten."

That was a wonderful breakfast. It is unusual to begin the day with
cold apple