"'Cause you said he was a blacksmith," said Tom, "and I thought it was
something like a sweep, and sweeps never can get white again, can they?
It says so in the Bible."

I burst out laughing. "He means about the Ethiopian," I said, but
Pierson didn't laugh. That was one of the things I didn't like about
her. She never could see any fun in anything, and she still looked
rather offended at Tom. "All black," she repeated. "What an idea!"

I tried to put her in a good humour again by asking her to tell us about
her house. It was a very pretty cottage, she said, next door to the
smithy, but of course a different entrance, and all that.

"Has it roses on the walls?" I asked, and "Yes," Pierson replied.
"Beautiful roses--climbing ones of all colours. And there's a nice
little garden in front. It's a very pretty cottage, but most of the
cottages in our village are pretty. It's a real old-fashioned village,
Miss Audrey--I would like you to see it--it's not so very far from
London."

"Will you go there in the same railway we came in?" asked Tom.

"Oh no," said Pierson, "it's quite the other way from
Elderling."--Elderling was our old home. "It's only two hours and a half
from town, by express. You go to Coppleswade Junction, and then it's a
walk of five miles to Cray--that's the name of the village, and
Coppleswade's the post-town."

"Perhaps," said I, "perhaps some time we'll come and see you, Pierson."

Pierson smiled, but shook her head. She was at no time of a very
sanguine or hopeful disposition.

"It would be nice," she said, "too nice to come true, I'm afraid. I
would like to show you all to mother. Poor mother, she's counting the
days till I come--she's very frail now, and she's been so long alone
since Joseph went to America. But it's getting late, my dears. I must
put you to bed, or we'll have Mrs. Partridge up to know what we're
about."

"Horrid old thing!" I said. And when Pierson undressed us, and had
tucked us all in comfortably, we kissed her, and repeated how much we
wished that we were going to live in the pretty village of Cray with
her, instead of staying in this gloomy London, with Mrs. Partridge.

I have often thought since, how queer it was that Pierson should have
been so very nice that last night, and from that what a great lot of
things have come! You will see what I mean as I go on. I can't help
thinking--this is quite a different thought, nothing to do with the
other--that without knowing it