‘Well, my little red-legged partridge,’ cried Geoffrey, ‘and where is mamma?’ ‘Mamma has gone to London,’ answered Flossie, with the callousness of childhood. Geoffrey turned pale. He had come on purpose to be miserable—to utter words which must be sharp as Moorish javelins to pierce his own heart. Yet, not finding Janet, he felt as deeply disappointed as if his errand had been the happiest. And Flossie’s calm announcement kindled a spark of jealousy in his breast. ‘To London, and why?’ was his first question. ‘To London, and with whom?’ was his second. ‘A boy brought a nasty wicked letter, in a yellow envelope, from the railway-station,’ said Flossie, making a face expressive of supreme disgust; ‘and mamma went away directly. Poor mamma was so pale, and trembled as she put on her bonnet, and I cried when she went. But old Sally is ever so kind to me, and I’m happy now.’ ‘Shallow, fickle child!’ cried Geoffrey; ‘take me to old Sally.’ Flossie conducted him through the pretty little parlour he remembered so well, across a tiny kitchen—neat as the kitchen of a doll’s house and not much bigger—to the garden behind the cottage, where old Sally stood boldly out on a bit of high ground, cutting winter cabbages, and in a bonnet which she wore like a helmet. She was not a little surprised and confused by the apparition of a tall young gentleman in her back garden; but on recovering her fluttered spirits, told Geoffrey what he so ardently desired to know. ‘The telegraft was from Mr. Lucius,’ she said, ‘and Miss Janet was to go up to London by the first train that left Foxley-road station. I asked her if Mr. Lucius was ill, and she says No. “But somebody is ill, Sarah,” she says, “and I must go at once.” And she leaves all of a maze like, poor dear young lady! So I ups and runs to Mr. Hind, at the farm, and asks the loan of his wagonette and man; and the man drove Miss Janet and the other young lady off in time to catch the twelve-o’clock train.’ ‘Some one ill,’ thought Geoffrey. ‘Who could that have been? I have heard her say she had no one in the world to care for except Flossie and her brother Lucius.’ ‘Have you heard nothing since she left you?’ he asked. ‘Lor bless her dear heart, o’ course I have!’ answered the old woman, picking up her greenstuffs, which she had dropped in her embarrassment at Geoffrey’s abrupt appearance. ‘I had a sweet letter telling me as she was going to stop a few days up in London with her brother. A nice change for her, poor dear!’ added Sally, whose rustic idea of London was a scene of perpetual enchantment; ‘and telling me to take care of little missy; and I do take care of her, don’t I, dear?’ she said, looking benevolently down at Flossie, who was hanging affectionately to her apron; ‘and little missy and me are going to have a nice bit of biled bacon and greens and a apple dumpling for our dinner.’