Bell had brought out a book with her, which she held embraced in her arms, but had not opened. She was seated well up in the tree, dangling her feet close to Marie’s head, who was seated on a lower branch. Marie had no book--her tastes were not literary; and she was very near the edge of that great discovery which both had made, but neither avowed, that under some circumstances it might be “nice” to go away. “Were you ever in a great big, big place--in a city, Bell?” “You little silly, of course I have been in Farboro’. I have been with mamma a hundred times, and so have you.” “Farboro’ is not what I mean. Farboro’ is only a town. There are not so very many people in it, and the cathedral is the chief place. It is not noisy or wicked at all. I mean a great horrid place where there are crowds everywhere, and policemen, and where nobody goes to church. That is what they call a city in books. London is a city,” said Marie. “I have never been in London, you know. I wonder if we shall ever see it,” said Bell. “I wonder if mamma will ever take us there. I wonder if you and I will be quite different from Alice when we grow up. _She_ has been presented. I wonder if it makes a difference when poor girls are like us--without any father,” she added, with a little choke of tears. “Do you think we shall be poor?” said Marie. “There is not much difference now. We have all the same servants, and as much to eat, and Mademoiselle just the same.” “It will not make any difference in what we have to eat,” said Bell, approaching the dangerous subject. “But--perhaps we may not be able to stay at Markham. Oh, Marie! what would you think if mamma were to give up Markham altogether and go away?” Marie looked up with large eyes, stretching her neck, as her sister was at an elevation almost perpendicular. She said, in a tone of awe, “Oh, I don’t know! What would _you_ think, Bell?” Neither of the children liked to commit themselves. At length Bell, who felt that her superior age required of her that she should lead the way, assumed the privilege of her years. “I don’t know either,” she said, reflectively. “If it was in summer, when everything is bright, I should not like it at all; but if, perhaps,” she added, slower and slower, “it was in the rainy weather--when you can’t go out, when the grass is so wet you sink in it, when there is nothing but sleet and slush, and the trees drop cold drops upon you even when it’s not raining, and you get your frock all wet even in the avenue----” Marie’s eyes opened bigger and bigger after every step of this hypothesis. She followed them with a movement of her lips and a gasp of excitement at the end. “Then--” said Bell, “perhaps--I think--it might be rather nice, Marie.” “Oh, Bell! that is what I sometimes thought--but I never liked to say it.”