The silver water of the Thames and the black towers of Parliament went by them like visions. They saw the fiery smoke of Victorian trains stream by like dragon’s breath. “Move on!” said Lionel. They heard the dogs of Hackbridge bay at the moon, and smelt the Mitcham Lavender. Box Hill rose like a dark wave on their left, and sank away as Leith Hill rose like another on their right. “Move on!” said Lionel. The woods of Surrey dissolved into the woods of Sussex. A river sleeping between pink willow herb and purple loosestrife curled before them. “Move on!” said Lionel. A spur of the Downs rolled up like a green ball. A deep chalk road, cut like the Milky Way in the side of the hill, opened a channel for their feet. “Move on!” said Lionel. Gypsy and Ginger moved on. At the top of the hill Ginger sat down all of a sudden. “Lionel,” said she, “I can’t move another step.” But Lionel did not answer. When they turned their heads he was not there. He had just completed the longest move on the Police Records, and was now speeding back to Scotland Yard to throw up his Roving Commission. [Illustration: GYPSY AND GINGER MOVE IN] Gypsy and Ginger sat on the top of the Downs till daybreak. As the sun came up, Ginger uttered a cry. “Oh!” said Ginger. “Look!” Gypsy looked, and saw that they were on the end of one chain of hills that faced the end of another chain of hills. In the valley that lay between, a river ran very full and level among green grass and gold buttercups. “There’s such a lot to look at,” said Gypsy. “Particularly what?” “My cottage!” said Ginger, and rolled down the hill. Gypsy rolled after her. But she picked herself up first, shook her head, and was along the road like a hare. He tracked her to the cottage by the things that fell out of her pockets, peppermints and pencils and penknives and tangles of string. Just as Gypsy arrived at the cottage Ginger was coming away from it. She looked extremely excited. “Gypsy,” she said, “it’s empty! The Blacksmith’s Son isn’t there.” (She had told him all about the Blacksmith’s Son on the wedding-day.) “I’m going to see the Blacksmith.” They found the Blacksmith alone at work in the Forge. He looked round at them, and said to Ginger, “What d’ye want, missy?” “Where’s your son?” asked Ginger. “Emigrated,” said the Blacksmith. “When?” asked Ginger. “Day arter you was here,” said the Blacksmith. “Where’s Lizzie Hooker?” asked Ginger. “Emigrated,” said the Blacksmith. “When?” asked Ginger. “Day arter that,” said the Blacksmith. “What happened to them?” asked Ginger. “Married. Ship-Ranch. Canada,” said the Blacksmith. “Don’t they want to live in the cottage?” asked Ginger. “No,” said the Blacksmith. “Then,” said Ginger, “I and Gypsy want to, please.” The Blacksmith scratched his chin with his hammer. “I’m sorry, missy,” said the Blacksmith, “but for three hundred years, ever since that cottage were built, it’s been kept in the family for one of the Blacksmith’s sons.”