When he woke next morning his mother was in the room; and while he washed and dressed she folded his bed-clothes and carried them down to a waggon which stood by the door, with horses already harnessed. It drove away soon after. He found breakfast laid on the window-seat. A neighbour had lent the crockery, and Taffy was greatly taken with the pattern on the cups and saucers. He wanted to run round again and repeat his good-byes to the house, but there was no time. By-and-by the door opened, and two men, neighbours of theirs, entered with an invalid’s litter; and, Humility directing, brought down old Mrs. Venning. She wore the corner of a Paisley shawl over her white cap, and carried a nosegay of flowers in place of her lace-pillow; but otherwise looked much as usual. “Quite the traveller, you see!” she cried gaily to Taffy. Then the woman who had lent the breakfast-ware came running to say that Joby was getting impatient. Humility handed the door-key to her, and so the little procession passed out and down across Mount Folly. Joby had drawn his van up close to the granite steps. They were the only passengers, it seemed. The invalid was hoisted in and laid with her couch across the seats, so that her shoulders rested against one side of the van and her feet against the other. Humility climbed in after her; but Taffy, to his joy, was given a seat outside the box. “C’k!”--they were off. As they crawled up the street a few townspeople paused on the pavement and waved farewells. At the top of the town they overtook three sailor-boys, with bundles, who climbed up and perched themselves a-top of the van, on the luggage. On they went again. There were two horses--a roan and a grey. Taffy had never before looked down on the back of a horse, and Joby’s horses astonished him; they were so broad behind, and so narrow at the shoulders. He wanted to ask if the shape were at all common, but felt shy. He stole a glance at the silver ring in Joby’s left ear, and blushed when Joby turned and caught him. “Here, catch hold!” said Joby handing him the whip. “Only you mustn’t use it too fierce.” “Thank you.” “I suppose you’ll be a scholar, like your father? Can ee spell?” “Yes.” “Cipher?” “Yes.” “That’s more than I can. I counts upon my fingers. When they be used up, I begins upon my buttons. I ha’n’t got no buttons--visible that is--’pon my week-a-day clothes; so I keeps the long sums for Sundays, and adds ’em up and down my weskit during sermon. Don’t tell any person.” “I won’t.” “That’s right. I don’t want it known. Ever see a gipsy?” “Oh, yes--often.” “Next time you see one you’ll know why he wears so many buttons. You’ve a lot to learn.”