"Well, what is it? Make haste, there's a good child, for I must go to Freddie; he's very restless to-night." Susan's head felt in a whirl. What should she ask first? She must do it directly, or Mother would be gone. It all seemed confusion, and at last she could only stammer out: "What's her other name? Is she cross?" "Whose? Oh, you little goose, you mean Aunt Enticknapp, I suppose. Her name is Hannah. She's a very nice kind old lady, and she'll spoil you dreadfully, I don't doubt. Now Susan," in a graver tone, "remember you've promised not to give trouble, and if you're going to cry it will trouble me very much. You must think of poor Freddie and not be silly and selfish, but go away cheerfully on Monday. Will you?" "Are you coming with me?" asked Susan, lifting her large eyes anxiously to her mother's face. "All the way to Ramsgate! No, indeed, I shouldn't have time. You know we start ourselves the next day. Maria's going with you." Susan's little chest heaved, and her fingers clung tightly to the lace frilling; Mother gently unclasped them one by one. "Lie down and I will tuck you up nicely. There now, a kiss. Good-night, darling." In another second the light of the candle, the pink dressing-gown, the fair hair, had all vanished together, and Susan was alone again. After all she had not been able to ask nearly all the questions she had prepared, and she could not help crying softly to herself for a little while before she went to sleep; for the noises in the street seemed to be saying now over and over again: "All the way to Ramsgate, all the way to Ramsgate. Maria's going with you." After this it was surprising how quickly the days went by and Monday came. Susan had her own little preparations to make for leaving home, and while Nurse was packing her clothes she brought her many odd-looking parcels, and asked anxiously: "Can you get this in?"