This was the first train the children saw on that railway which was in time to become so very dear to them. They did not guess then how they would grow to love the railway, and how soon it would become the centre of their new life, nor what wonders and changes it would bring to them. They only shivered and sneezed and hoped the walk to the new house would not be long. Peter's nose was colder than he ever remembered it to have been before. Roberta's hat was crooked, and the elastic seemed tighter than usual. Phyllis's shoe-laces had come undone. “Come,” said Mother, “we've got to walk. There aren't any cabs here.” The walk was dark and muddy. The children stumbled a little on the rough road, and once Phyllis absently fell into a puddle, and was picked up damp and unhappy. There were no gas-lamps on the road, and the road was uphill. The cart went at a foot's pace, and they followed the gritty crunch of its wheels. As their eyes got used to the darkness, they could see the mound of boxes swaying dimly in front of them. A long gate had to be opened for the cart to pass through, and after that the road seemed to go across fields--and now it went down hill. Presently a great dark lumpish thing showed over to the right. “There's the house,” said Mother. “I wonder why she's shut the shutters.” “Who's SHE?” asked Roberta. “The woman I engaged to clean the place, and put the furniture straight and get supper.” There was a low wall, and trees inside. “That's the garden,” said Mother. “It looks more like a dripping-pan full of black cabbages,” said Peter. The cart went on along by the garden wall, and round to the back of the house, and here it clattered into a cobble-stoned yard and stopped at the back door. There was no light in any of the windows. Everyone hammered at the door, but no one came. The man who drove the cart said he expected Mrs. Viney had gone home. “You see your train was that late,” said he. “But she's got the key,” said Mother. “What are we to do?” “Oh, she'll have left that under the doorstep,” said the cart man; “folks do hereabouts.” He took the lantern off his cart and stooped. “Ay, here it is, right enough,” he said. He unlocked the door and went in and set his lantern on the table. “Got e'er a candle?” said he. “I don't know where anything is.” Mother spoke rather less cheerfully than usual. He struck a match. There was a candle on the table, and he lighted it. By its thin little glimmer the children saw a large bare kitchen with a stone floor. There were no curtains, no hearth-rug. The kitchen table from home stood in the middle of the room. The chairs were in one corner, and the pots, pans, brooms, and crockery in another. There was no fire, and the black grate showed cold, dead ashes. As the cart man turned to go out after he had brought in the boxes, there was a rustling, scampering sound that seemed to come from inside the walls of the house. “Oh, what's that?” cried the girls.