I looked round the nursery approvingly. It was such a charming, old-fashioned room, rather low, perhaps, but with brown wainscotting, and a dark panelled ceiling, and wooden window seats, and though the windows were small, they were deliciously quaint, and they looked out on the grass terrace and the sundial, and there was the white pony grazing under the elms, and such a pretty peep of the park, as I supposed they called it. An old black-faced sheep came in sight; I called Joyce to look at it, and even Reggie clapped his dear little hands, and cried out, “Ba—ba, ba—ba.” The bedrooms were just as cosy and old-fashioned as the nursery. The bed where Joyce and I were to sleep was hung with curious blue chintz, and there was an oak wardrobe that looked black with age, and curious prints in little black frames hung round the walls. Reggie’s cot had chintz hangings too. The afternoon sunshine was flooding the room, as I stood at the window a moment. I called to Hannah to admire the view. We were at the back of the house; there was a kitchen garden and fruit trees, then came a deep, narrow lane and cornfield, and beyond lay the sea; I could even catch sight of a white sail very near the shore. I never saw Hannah so excited as she was when she caught sight of that lane. She thrust her head out of the window, almost overbalancing herself in her eagerness. “Why, miss,” she exclaimed, “there is Cherry-tree-lane, and if we could only see round the corner—but those pear trees shut it out—we should see Wheeler’s Farm. Isn’t it like being at home?” her voice trembling with emotion. “Directly I had a taste of the salt air, and a glimpse of Squire Hawtry’s cornfields, I felt almost beside myself.” And indeed the girl’s honest joy was good to witness, and again, as I thought of those sisters crowding out the attics of Wheeler’s Farm, I could have found it in my heart to envy Hannah. When I had taken off the children’s things we went back to the day nursery. A freckled-faced country girl was covering the round table with all sorts of dainties—new laid eggs, fruit, jam, and honey; there seemed no end to the good things. She nodded to Hannah in a friendly way, and asked after her health in broad Sussex dialect. “Do you know Susan?” I observed, in some surprise, as I poured out some milk for the thirsty children. “She is a neighbour’s daughter,” replied Hannah, as she waited on us. “Susan was never much to my taste, but we learnt our samplers together. The Mullinses are not our sort,” she continued, with manifest pride. “Joseph Mullins is the village cobbler, but he is none too steady, and father and Molly can’t abide him.”