'My dear,' said my mother, 'we cannot afford better.' I looked into her face; it was pale and cheerful. But I saw, although no signs of repining were there, that care had made its mark. She smiled at me. 'We are very poor, dear child,' she said; and added quickly, with a light in her eyes, 'but that is no reason why we should not be happy.' She did her best to make me so, and poor as our home was, it contained many sweet pleasures. By this time I had completely lost sight of Snaggletooth and all our former friends and acquaintances. I did not miss them; I had my mother with me, and I wished for no one else. Already, my former life and my former friends were becoming to me things of long ago. My mother often spoke of London, and of her wish to go there. 'I think it would be better for us, Chris,' she said. 'Is London a very large place?' I asked. 'As large as this?' stretching out my arms to gain an idea of its extent. My mother told me what she knew of London, which was not much, for she had only been there once, for a couple of days, and I said I was sure I should not like it; there were too many people in it. My idea of perfect happiness was to live with my mother in some pretty country place, where there were fields and shady walks and turnstiles and narrow lanes, and perhaps a river. I described the very place, and artistically dotted it with lazy cattle listening for mysterious signs in earth or air, or looking with steady solemn gaze far into the horizon, as if they were observing signs hidden from human gaze. I also put some lazy barges on the river, 'Creeping, creeping, creeping,' I said, 'as if they were _so_ tired!' 'And we would go and live in that very place, my dear,' said my mother, 'if we had money enough.' 'When you get money enough, mother, we _will_ go.' 'Yes, my dear.'