d
dog would see to that. And Janet would see to the children keeping dry,
or getting dry quickly after rain, and so forth. Such an experience as
a fortnight in a caravan of their own should be a splendid thing for
all of them. Gregory, for example--it's quite time that he studied the
A B C of engineering and began where James Watt began, instead of
merely profiting by the efforts of all the investigators since then. I
mean, it's quite time he watched a kettle boil; and Hester would get no
harm by mixing a little washing-up with her 'Romeo and Juliet'
wool-gathering."

"I think you're right," said Mrs. Avory; "and I'm sure they are very
unlikely to get any such experience here. But I shall be very nervous."

"No, you won't," said Mr. Lenox, "because we'll arrange that you shall
have news. I have thought of that. A telegram every morning at
breakfast and a telegram every evening after tea. That will be
perfectly simple. And letters, of course."

In this way it was settled that the Great Experiment might be tried,
especially as so wise a woman as Collins and so old an ally as Runcie
were not against it. Both, indeed, were of Uncle Christopher's opinion
that the self-help and self-reliance which the caravan would lead to
would be of the greatest use.

Collins, when she heard later some hint of the possible route the
caravan would follow, became not only a supporter of the scheme, but an
enthusiast, because her own home was not distant, and she made the
children promise to spend a day there with her brother, the farmer. She
also gave Janet some lessons in frying-pan cooking.

Runcie never became an enthusiast, but she allowed herself to be
interested, if cautionary.

"To think of the nice comfortable beds you will be leaving," she would
say.

"A horse is a vain thing for safety," she would say.

"The blisters you'll get on your poor feet!" she would say.

"The indigestion!" she would say.

"Living like gypsies," she would say.

"No proper washing or anything," she would say.

"Cheer up, Runcie," Gregory would reply; "you're not going."

"And glad I am I'm not," she would answer.

"I wish you were, Runcie, and then we'd show you in the villages as
'The Old-Woman-Who-Can't-See-Any-Fun-in-Caravaning' Walk up! Walk up! A
penny a peep!"

"A clever dog. He knows the difference between an attack and a feeling
of faintness. But just come down to the Bricklayers' Arms, and I'll
show you."

"No, thank you," said