e is staying here,' I said. I thought it best to speak
decidedly. 'Is she at home?'

I suppose my way of speaking made her see we were not beggars, and
perhaps she caught sight of the four-wheeler, looming faintly through
the fog, for she answered quite civilly.

'She is not exactly staying here. She is in rooms a little way from
here, but she comes round most afternoons. I thought it was her when you
rang, but I don't think she'll be coming now--not in this fog.'

My heart had gone down like lead at the first words--'she is not,' but
as the servant went on I got more hopeful again.

'Can you--' I began--I was going to have asked for Mrs. Wylie's address,
but just then Margaret coughed; the worst cough I had heard yet from
her. 'Why couldn't you have stayed in the cab?' I said sharply, and
perhaps it was a good thing, to show that we _had_ a cab waiting for us.
'Please,' I went on, 'let this little girl come inside for a minute. The
fog makes her cough so.'

The parlour-maid stepped back, opening the door a little wider, but
there was something doubtful in her manner, as if she was not quite sure
if she was not running a risk in letting us in. I pushed Margaret
forward, and not Margaret only! She was holding fast to her precious
bundle, and Peterkin was holding fast to _his_ side of it, so they
tumbled in together in a way that was enough to make the servant stare,
and I stayed half on the steps, half inside, but from where I was I
could see into the hall quite well. It looked so nice and comfortable,
compared with the horribleness outside. It was a square sort of hall.
The house was not a big one, not nearly as big as ours at home, but lots
bigger than the Rock Terrace ones, of course.

'Can you give me Mrs. Wylie's address?' I said. 'I think the best thing
we can do is to--' but I was interrupted again.

A girl--a grown-up girl, a lady, I mean--came forward from the inner
part of the hall.

'Browner,' she said, 'do shut the door. You are letting the fog get all
over the house, and it is bitterly cold.'

She was blinking her eyes a little as she spoke: either the light or the
fog, or both, hurt them. Perhaps she had been sitting over the fire in a
darkish room. 'Blinking her eyes' doesn't sound very pretty, but it was,
I found afterwards, a sort of trick of hers, and somehow it suited her.
_She_ was very pretty. I didn't often notice girls' looks, but I
couldn't help noticing hers. Everything about her was pr