Blanche continued to stroll uneasily round the room as though in search of something, and took no notice of the ball, even when it was rolled right under her nose. "Well, I suppose what you want is your clockwork mouse," said Philippa, "and that's your very best toy. But I shan't let you have it long, because I'm not going to spoil you ever any more." She wound up the little mouse, and let it run nimbly round and round close to the kitten. Formerly it had been a never-failing excitement, but now, to Philippa's surprise and vexation, Blanche sat perfectly unmoved before it, and did not lift a paw. Perhaps during her short visit to the stable she had become acquainted with real mice, for after giving one slight sniff at the imitation one, she rose and walked away with a high and scornful step. "Well, I'm sure!" exclaimed Philippa. She stood gazing at the kitten as though she could hardly believe what she had seen, then turned and flung herself moodily into the window-seat. Everything at Haughton, even the kitten, was tiresome, and disagreeable, and dreadfully dull. "You're not a bit of comfort," she said to Blanche, who was now mewing at the door to be let out, "and if they send you to the stable again, I shan't fetch you back. I believe you're just fit for a low, mean stable-cat. So there!" It was some relief to hurl this insult, but it hurt Philippa a great deal more than the cat, and her eyes filled with tears as she turned her head and looked out into the garden. Here again the contrast to Fieldside struck her. Broad gravelled terraces, flights of stone steps, masses of brilliant flower-beds; and beyond, the wide green spaces of the park, with its groups of trees all standing in exactly the right places, well ordered, stately, correct, as though the very shrubs and plants had been trained to hold themselves with propriety. At Fieldside you could not look for a minute out of the schoolroom window without seeing something alive. Cows strolling across the meadow; Aunt Katharine's chickens venturing into the garden, and driven out by Peter, cackling and shrieking; companies of busy starlings working away on the lawn; it was all lively and cheerful, though Mrs Trevor always said it was "buried in the country." Haughton Park was considered a "beautiful place," and Philippa was used to hearing it spoken of as such, but just now she decided in her own mind that it was not to be compared to Fieldside. As she sat gloomily gazing out of the window, her eye was caught by something which she had not noticed before, and which she began to observe with some interest. It was nothing more remarkable than the figure of a boy in a ragged jacket, who knelt on the garden path below, weeding. Philippa studied him attentively.