was not tall for his age. He could read, of
course, perfectly, and write a little. Now and then he wrote little
letters to Sybil in answer to hers, for she was very particular about
getting answers. She was only just beginning to learn to write, and
sometimes when she got tired of working away at real "A's" and "B's" and
"C's" in her letters, she would dash off into a lot of "scribble," which
she said was "children's writing," and "if Carrots didn't know what it
meant he must be very stupid, as he was a child too."

Carrots _didn't_ know what it meant, but he never liked to say so, and I
dare say it did not much matter. But _his_ letters to Sybil were quite
real. Any one could have understood them.

Long ago Floss and he had bought their hoops. They were quite "old
friends" now. They had bought them at the toy-shop, just as they had
planned, and, curiously enough when their mamma and nurse counted up how
much was owing to them for the sugar, it came to _exactly_ the price of
the hoops.

But I must tell you what happened just about the time Carrots had his
seventh birthday. The summer was nearly over again and already the cold
winds, of which there were so many at Sandyshore, were beginning to be
felt. Floss noticed that her mother very seldom went out now, and even
in the house she generally had to wrap herself up in a shawl.

"Mamma, I hope the cold weather isn't going to make you ill again?"
Floss said, one day when she and Carrots came in from a race on the
sands, all hot and rosy with running.

"I don't know, dear," said her mother with a little sigh.

"I wish you could run about like us. That would make you _so_ hot," said
Carrots.

Mrs. Desart smiled. Just then her glance happened to fall on Floss's
boots. "My dear child," she said, "those boots are really not fit to go
out with. There's a great hole at the side of one of them."

"I know, mamma," said Floss, "but they're going to be mended. Nurse
thinks they'll do a good while longer, if they're mended. I hope they
will, for I know you always have so many new things to get when winter
begins to come--haven't you, mamma?"

Mrs. Desart sighed again.

"I should have liked all your things to be so nice," she said, more as
if speaking to herself than to Floss, "but it can't be helped."

Something in her tone caught Floss's attention.

"Why, mamma?" she asked, "why did you want our things to be so nice?"

"Because, dears, you may be going away from home,"