By the end of _this_ summer Carrots was seven years old--no longer in the least a baby, though he was not tall for his age. He could read, of course, perfectly, and write a little. Now and then he wrote little letters to Sybil in answer to hers, for she was very particular about getting answers. She was only just beginning to learn to write, and sometimes when she got tired of working away at real "A's" and "B's" and "C's" in her letters, she would dash off into a lot of "scribble," which she said was "children's writing," and "if Carrots didn't know what it meant he must be very stupid, as he was a child too." Carrots _didn't_ know what it meant, but he never liked to say so, and I dare say it did not much matter. But _his_ letters to Sybil were quite real. Any one could have understood them. Long ago Floss and he had bought their hoops. They were quite "old friends" now. They had bought them at the toy-shop, just as they had planned, and, curiously enough when their mamma and nurse counted up how much was owing to them for the sugar, it came to _exactly_ the price of the hoops. But I must tell you what happened just about the time Carrots had his seventh birthday. The summer was nearly over again and already the cold winds, of which there were so many at Sandyshore, were beginning to be felt. Floss noticed that her mother very seldom went out now, and even in the house she generally had to wrap herself up in a shawl. "Mamma, I hope the cold weather isn't going to make you ill again?" Floss said, one day when she and Carrots came in from a race on the sands, all hot and rosy with running. "I don't know, dear," said her mother with a little sigh. "I wish you could run about like us. That would make you _so_ hot," said Carrots. Mrs. Desart smiled. Just then her glance happened to fall on Floss's boots. "My dear child," she said, "those boots are really not fit to go out with. There's a great hole at the side of one of them." "I know, mamma," said Floss, "but they're going to be mended. Nurse thinks they'll do a good while longer, if they're mended. I hope they will, for I know you always have so many new things to get when winter begins to come--haven't you, mamma?" Mrs. Desart sighed again. "I should have liked all your things to be so nice," she said, more as if speaking to herself than to Floss, "but it can't be helped." Something in her tone caught Floss's attention. "Why, mamma?" she asked, "why did you want our things to be so nice?" "Because, dears, you may be going away from home," replied Mrs. Desart. Floss and Carrots stared with astonishment. "Going away from home," Floss repeated, utterly unable to say more. Carrots could say nothing at all, he could _only_ stare. "Yes," continued Mrs. Desart, "I had meant to tell you about it before, but I have kept putting it off--" she stopped and seemed to hesitate. "Why, mamma?" said Floss again. "Don't you like us to go? Are you coming with us, mamma?"