ppy in spite of the rain, I felt so miserable I could do
nothing but press more closely the two little hands that still lay in
mine, and repeat to myself the promise I had made to mother. "Oh I
_will_ try to take care of them and make them happy and good till you
come back," and there was a great deal of comfort in the thought,
especially when I went on to make, as I was very fond of doing, pictures
of papa and mother coming home again, and of them saying how good Tom
and Racey were, and what great care I must have taken of them. I only
wished--especially since she had spoken crossly to me--that it had not
been settled for Pierson to stay with us. I felt so sure I could take
better care of the boys than any one else.

But my thoughts and plans were interrupted by our stopping at last.
Uncle Geoff's house was in a street in which there were no shops. It was
a dull-looking street at all times; to-night of course we could see
nothing but just the house where we stopped. It looked big and dull to
Tom and me as we went in; Racey, poor little fellow, didn't know
anything about how it looked, for he had fallen asleep again and had to
be carried in in Pierson's arms. The hall was a regular town house
hall--you know the kind I mean--not like ours at home, which was nicely
carpeted and had a pretty fireplace, where in winter there was always a
bright fire to welcome you on first going in; the hall at Uncle Geoff's
was cold and dull, with just oilcloth on the floor, and a stiff hall
table and hat-stand, and stiff chairs; no flower-stands or plants about,
such as mother was so fond of. And the servant that opened the door was
rather stiff-looking too. She was the housemaid, and her name was Sarah.
It was not generally she that had to open the door, but the footman had
gone to the station you know, and perhaps Sarah was cross at having to
open. And far back in the hall an oldish-looking person was standing,
who came forward when she saw it was us. She was dressed in black silk,
and she had a cap with lilac ribbons. She looked kind but rather fussy.

"And so these are the dear children," she said. "How do you do, little
missy, and little master too; and the dear baby is asleep, I see? And
how did you leave your dear papa and mamma?"

"Quite well, thank you," said Tom and I together. We squeezed each
other's hands tight; we were determined not to cry before Mrs.
Partridge, for we knew it must be her, and by the way Tom squeezed my
h