her
house in China, because she said she didn't want to make a home of it.
It was queer that Tom should say just the same--it must be true that he
was like mother.

"Audrey," he went on again in a minute, still staring out of the window,
in the same dull way, "Audrey, how many _days_ will it be till they come
back again?"

"I don't know," I replied.

"If we could find out exactly," he said, "I was thinking we might make a
paper--a great big paper, with marks for every day, and then every night
we might scratch one out. Papa told me he did that when he was a little
boy at school, to watch for the holidays coming, and I'm sure we want
them to come back more than any holidays."

"It might be a good plan," I said, for I didn't like to discourage Tom
in anything he took a fancy to just now. But a sick, miserable feeling
came over me when I thought that we were actually speaking of counting
the days to their return, when they had not yet _gone_. Only this
afternoon would they reach Southampton, the first stage on the terrible
long journey.

Tom still sat swinging his legs.

[Illustration: "London isn't a very nice place, _is_ it?"]

"Audrey," he said, "London isn't a very nice place, _is_ it?"

Certainly the look-out to-day was not tempting. Rain, rain--wet and
sloppy under foot, gray and gloomy over head. I pressed my cheek against
Tom's round, rosy face, and we stared out together.

"There must be _some_ happy children in London, I suppose," I said,
"children whose fathers and mothers are at home with them to make them
happy," and as I said the words, suddenly on the other side of the
street, a few doors down, my glance fell on the little conservatory
which had caught Racey's eyes--his "air garden." I pointed it out to
Tom, who listened with interest to Racey's funny name for it.

"I wonder," I said, "if there are happy children in that house?"

[Illustration]

CHAPTER V.

A NEW TROUBLE.

"Ah! folks spoil their children now;
When I was a young woman 'twas not so."

That first day passed--but drearily enough. Pierson was really very
kind--kinder than we had ever known her. Not that she had ever been
_un_kind; only grumbly--but never unkind so that the boys and I could be
_afraid_ of her, and when mother was with us, mother who was _always_
cheerful, it didn't matter much if Pierson did grumble.

But to-day she was kinder than ever before, almost as if she had known
by magic what was going