Hannah grumbled, of course, when she heard of the journey. Then, grumbling being useless, she busied herself in seeing that Mr. Vincent's portmanteau was dusted out, and that the key, which was tied to one of the handles by a bit of string, turned properly in the lock. And a strange old bag, made of brown canvas and lined with stuff that looked like bed-ticking, was found to carry the few things that Margaret was to take. It was the one that Hannah herself often used when she went to Petersfield, and therefore obviously good enough for any other member of the household. But Mr. Vincent looked at it with surprise; he remembered in his youth seeing the under-gardener's son set off for Liverpool, and the bag he carried was just like this one. "I think we must buy something else for you in London, Margey," he said. "Oh, I dare say you'll do a great deal when you get there," Hannah struck in, sharply. "It's to be hoped you'll take her to see Westminster Abbey and St. Paul's, to say nothing of the City Temple and the Tabernacle and Exeter Hall. It would be as well for her to see that, in one way or another, people have thought a good deal of religion, though you and others like you put yourselves above it." She waited, but Mr. Vincent showed no sign of having heard her. "I'm afraid that one day you'll find you have made a mistake," she went on. He pulled out a little pouch and rolled up a cigarette. "Are you going to drive us to the station yourself?" he asked. "I suppose I'd better," she answered. "I don't know what's come to that boy lately. If I send him over to Haslemere he never knows when to get back." So the cart came round on Monday morning. Mr. Vincent and Hannah got up in front, and Margaret behind, with the portmanteau and the canvas bag on either side of her. Mrs. Vincent stood waving her handkerchief till they were out of sight, then went with a sigh to the best parlor, thinking it would be as well to take advantage of her husband's absence and give it an extra tidying. The postman came a little later. He trudged round to the back door, where he sat down on a four-legged stool that the boy had painted gray only last week, and prepared for a little talk with Towsey. "Have you heard that the house on the hill is let?" he was saying. "Some one from London has taken it for the whole summer." "What have you brought, postman?" Mrs. Vincent asked. He handed her a letter for Hannah. A smile came to her lips when she saw it. "It's the hand that directed the Christmas card," she said to herself. "And it's my belief that Mr. Garratt's coming at last." VI Margaret was in the seventh heaven when they reached London. The drive from Waterloo to the Langham--the bridge, the stream of people, the shops--were all bewildering. She could have sung for joy as they drove along in the hansom. "It appears to please you," Mr. Vincent said, with a little smile. "It does! It does!" she exclaimed. "Only I should like to walk along the pavements--"