 Dedication to my dear son, Paul Bland, behind whose knowledge of railways my ignorance confidently shelters. Dramatis personae. Bobby. Read by Hannah Mary. Peter. Read by Beth Thomas. Phyllis. Read by Jasmine Selma. Mother. Read by T.J. Burns. Perks the Porter. Read by Mark Phillips. The Station Master. Read by Thomas Peter. Dr. Forrest. Read by Graham Russ. The Old Gentleman. Read by Algy Pug. Bill the Engine Driver. Read by David Lawrence. Jimmy the Hound. Read by Eva Davis. Father. Read by Tom Geller. Mrs. Finey. Read by Foe. Ruth Maria. Mrs. Ransom. And the Hair. A College Boy. Read by Leanne Yau. Cartman. Read by Neema. Jim the Fireman. Read by Neema. Farmer. Read by Neema. Young Man. Read by Like Many Waters. Mr. Szapanski. Read by Tavariš. Jabba Zinglewood. Read by Eva Davis. Bill the Baji. Read by Son of the Exiles. Spont. Read by Foe. Mrs. Bax. Read by Bavia. Master Perks. Read by Tricia G. clergyman. Read by Eva Davis. Foreman. Read by Like Many Waters. Mrs. Workman. Read by David Lawrence. Workman One. Read by Neema. Workman Two. Read by Bavia. Workman Three. Read by Eva Davis. Signal Man. Read by Neema. Bailiff. Read by Bavia. Draper's Boy. Read by Foe. Blacksmith. Read by Neema. Narrated by Peter Yersley. End of Dedication and Stramatis Personae. Chapter 1 of The Railway Children. They were not railway children to begin with. I don't suppose they had ever thought about railways, except as a means of getting to Masculine and Cooks, the pantomime, zoological gardens, and madam to soads. They were just ordinary suburban children, and they lived with their father and mother in an ordinary red brick front villa, with coloured glass in the front door, a tiled passage that was called a hall, a bathroom with hot and cold water, electric bells, French windows, and a good deal of white paint, and every modern convenience, as the house agents say. There were three of them. Roberta was the eldest. Of course, mothers never have favourites, but if their mother had had a favourite, it might have been Roberta. Next came Peter, who wished to be an engineer when he grew up, and the youngest was Phyllis, who meant extremely well. Mother did not spend all her time in paying dull calls to dull ladies and sitting dullly at home waiting for dull ladies to pay calls to her. She was almost always there, ready to play with the children and read to them and help them to do their home lessons. Besides this, she used to write stories for them while they were at school and read them aloud after tea, and she always made up funny pieces of poetry for their birthdays and for other great occasions, such as the christening of the new kittens or the refurnishing of the doll's house or the time when they were getting over the mumps. These three lucky children always had everything they needed, pretty clothes, good fires, a lovely nursery with heaps of toys and a mother-goose wallpaper. They had a kind and a merry nursemaid and a dog who was called James and who was their very own. They also had a father who was just perfect, never cross, never unjust and always ready for a game. At least if, at any time he was not ready, he always had an excellent reason for it and explained the reason to the children so interestingly and funnily that they felt sure he couldn't help himself. You will think that they ought to have been very happy, and so they were, but they did not know how happy till the pretty life in the red villa was over and done with and they had to live a very different life indeed. The dreadful change came quite suddenly. Peter had a birthday, his tenth. Among his other presents was a model engine more perfect than you could ever have dreamed of. The other presents were full of charm, but the engine was fuller of charm than any of the others were. Its charm lasted in its full perfection for exactly three days, then, owing either to Peter's inexperience or Phyllis's good intentions, which had been rather pressing, or to some other cause, the engine suddenly went off with a bang. James was so frightened that he went out and did not come back all day. All the Noah's Ark people who were in the tender were broken to bits, but nothing else was hurt except the poor little engine and the feelings of Peter. The others said he cried over it, but, of course, boys of ten do not cry, however terrible the tragedies may be which darken their lot. He said that his eyes were red because he had a cold. This turned out to be true, though Peter did not know it was when he said it. The next day he had to go to bed and stay there. Mother began to be afraid that he might be sickening for measles when suddenly he sat up in bed and said, I hate, girl. I hate barley water. I hate bread and milk. I want to get up and have something real to eat. What would you like? Mother asked. A pigeon pie? said Peter eagerly. A large pigeon pie, a very large one. So Mother asked the cook to make a large pigeon pie. The pie was made, and when the pie was made it was cooked, and when it was cooked Peter ate some of it. After that his cold was better. Mother made a piece of poetry to amuse him while the pie was being made. It began by saying what an unfortunate but worthy boy Peter was. Then it went on. He had an engine that he loved with all his heart and soul, and if he had a wish on earth it was to keep it whole. One day, my friends, prepare your minds. I'm coming to the worst. Quite suddenly a screw went mad, and then the boiler burst. With gloomy face he picked it up and took it to his mother, though even he could not suppose that she could make another. For those who perished on the line he did not seem to care, his engine being more to him than all the people there. And now you see the reason why our Peter has been ill. He soothes his soul with pigeon pie, his gnawing grief to kill. He wraps himself in blankets warm and sleeps in bed till late, determined thus to overcome his miserable fate. And if his eyes are rather red, his cold must just excuse it, offer him pie, you may be sure, he never will refuse it. Father had been away in the country for three or four days. All Peter's hopes for the curing of his afflicted engine were now fixed on his father, for father was most wonderfully clever with his fingers. He could mend all sorts of things. He had often acted as veterinary surgeon to the wooden rocking-horse. Once he had saved its life when all human aid was disbared of and the poor creature was given up for lost, and even the carpenter said he didn't see his way to do anything. And it was father who mended the doll's cradle when no one else could, and with a little glue and some bits of wood and a pen-knife made all the knower's ark-beasts as strong on their pins as ever they were, if not stronger. Peter, with heroic unselfishness, did not say anything about his engine till after father had had his dinner and his after-dinner cigar. The unselfishness was mother's idea. But it was Peter who carried it out and needed a good deal of patience, too. At last mother said to father, Now, dear, if you're quite rested and quite comfy, we want to tell you about the great railway accident and ask your advice. All right, said father. Fire away! So then Peter told the sad tale and fetched what was left of the engine. Hmm, said father, when he had looked the engine over very carefully, the children held their breaths. Is there no hope? Said Peter, in a low, unsteady voice. Hope? Hmm, rather, tons of it, said father cheerfully. But it'll want something besides hope, a bit of brazing say or some solder, and a new valve, I think would better keep it for a rainy day. In other words, I'll give up Saturday afternoon to do it, and you shall all help me. Can girls help to mend engines? Peter asked doubtfully. Of course they can! Girls are just as clever as boys, and don't you forget it. How would you like to be an engine driver, Phil? My face would be always dirty, wouldn't it? Said Phyllis in unenthusiastic tones. And I expect I should break something. I should just love it, said Roberta. Do you think I could when I'm grown up, daddy, or even a stalker? You mean a fireman, said daddy, pulling and twisting at the engine. Well, if you still wish it when you're all grown up, we'll see about making you a firewoman. I remember when I was a boy. Just then there was a knock at the front door. Who, on earth? said father. An Englishman's house is his castle, of course, but I do wish they built semi-detached villas with moats and draw-bridges. Ruth, she was the parlour-maid, and had red hair, came in and said that two gentlemen wanted to see the master. I've shown them into the library, sir, said she. I expect it's the subscription to the vicar's testimonial, said mother. Or else it's the choir holiday fund. Get rid of them quickly, dear. It does break up an evening so, and it's nearly the children's bedtime. But father did not seem to be able to get rid of the gentlemen at all quickly. I wish we had got a moat and draw-bridge, said Roberta. Then, when we didn't want people, we could just pull up the draw-bridge and no one else could get in. I expect father will have forgotten all about when he was a boy, if they stay much longer. Mother tried to make the time pass by telling them a new fairy story about a princess with green eyes. But it was difficult because they could hear the voices of father and the gentlemen in the library, and father's voice sounded louder and different to the voice he generally used to people who came about testimonials and holiday funds. Then the library bell rang, and everyone heaved a breath of relief. They're going now, said Phyllis. He's rung to have them shown out. But instead of showing anybody out, Ruth showed herself in, and she looked queer, the children thought. Please, um— She said, The master wants you to just step into the study. He looks like the dead mum. I think he's had bad news. You'd best prepare yourself for the worst. Perhaps it's death in the family, or a bank busted, or— That'll do, Ruth, said mother gently. You can go. Then mother went into the library. There was more talking. The bell rang again, and Ruth fetched a cab. The children heard boots go out and down the steps. The cab drove away, and the front door shut. Then mother came in. Her dear face was as white as her lace collar, and her eyes looked very big and shining. Her mouth looked like just a line of pale red. Her lips were thin and not their proper shape at all. It's bedtime, she said. Ruth will put you to bed. But you promised we should sit up late tonight, because father's come home, said Phyllis. Father's been called away on business, said mother. Come, darlings, go at once. They kissed her and went. Roberta lingered to give mother an extra hug, and to whisper, It wasn't bad news, mommy, was it? Is anyone dead, or— Nobody's dead, no, said mother, and she almost seemed to push Roberta away. I can't tell you anything tonight, my pet. Go, dear, go now. So Roberta went. Ruth brushed the girl's hair and helped them to undress. Mother almost always did this herself. When she had turned down the gas and left them, she found Peter still dressed, waiting on the stairs. I say, Ruth, what's up? He asked. Don't ask me no questions, and I won't tell you no lies. The red-headed Ruth replied, You'll know soon enough. Late that night, mother came up and kissed all three children as they lay asleep. But Roberta was the only one whom the kiss woke, and she lay mousy still and said nothing. If mother doesn't want us to know she's been crying. She said to herself, as she heard through the dark, the catching of her mother's breath, We won't know it. That's all. When they came down to breakfast the next morning, mother had already gone out. To London. Ruth said, and left them to their breakfast. There's something awful the matter. Said Peter, breaking his egg. Ruth told me last night we should know soon enough. Did you ask her? Said Roberta with scorn. Yes, I did. Said Peter angrily. If you could go to bed without caring whether mother was worried or not, I couldn't. So there. I don't think we ought to ask the servants things mother doesn't tell us. Said Roberta. That's right, Miss Goodie-Goodie. Said Peter. Preach away. I'm not Goodie. Said Phyllis. But I think Bobby's right this time. Of course. She always is, in her own opinion. Said Peter. Oh, don't. Cried Roberta, putting down her egg spoon. Don't let's be horrid to each other. I'm sure some dire calamity is happening. Don't let's make it worse. Who began I should like to know? Said Peter. Roberta made an effort and answered. I did, I suppose, but— Well then. Said Peter triumphantly. But before he went to school he thumped his sister between the shoulders and told her to cheer up. The children came home to one o'clock dinner but mother was not there and she was not there at tea-time. It was nearly seven before she came in, looking so ill and tired that the children felt they could not ask her any questions. She sank into an armchair. Phyllis took the long pins out of her hat while Roberta took off her gloves and Peter unfastened her walking shoes and fetched her soft velvety slippers for her. When she had had a cup of tea and Roberta had put odour cologne on her poor heads that ached, mother said, Now, my darlings, I want to tell you something. Those men last night did bring very bad news and father will be away for some time. I'm very worried about it and I want you all to help me not make things harder for me. As if we would, said Roberta, holding mother's hand against her face. You can help me very much, said mother, by being good and happy and not quarreling when I'm away. Roberta and Peter exchanged guilty glances for I shall have to be away a good deal. We won't quarrel, indeed we won't, said everybody, and mentaged too. Then mother went on, I want you not to ask me any questions about this trouble and not to ask anybody else any questions. Peter cringed and shuffled his boots on the carpet. You'll promise this too, won't you, said mother? I did ask, Ruth, said Peter suddenly. I'm very sorry, but I did. And what did she say? She said I should know soon enough. It isn't necessary for you to know anything about it, said mother. It's about business, and you never do understand business, do you? No, said Roberta. Is it something to do with government? For father was in a government office. Yes, said mother. Now it's bedtime, my darlings, and don't you worry. It'll all come right in the end. Then don't you worry, either, mother, said Phyllis. And we'll all be as good as gold. Mother sighed and kissed them. We'll begin being good the first thing tomorrow morning, said Peter, as they went upstairs. Why not now? said Roberta. There's nothing to be good about now, silly, said Peter. We might begin to try to feel good, said Phyllis. And not call names? Who's calling names? said Peter. Bobby knows right enough that when I say silly, it's just the same as if I said Bobby. Well, said Roberta. No, I don't mean what you mean. I mean it's just a—what is it father calls it? A germ of endearment. Good night. The girls folded up their clothes with more than usual neatness, which was the only way of being good that they could think of. I say— said Phyllis, smoothing out her pinafore. You used to say it was so dull. Nothing happening like in books. Now something has happened. I never wanted things to happen to make Mother unhappy, said Roberta. Everything's perfectly horrid. Everything continued to be perfectly horrid for some weeks. Mother was nearly always out. Meals were dull and dirty. The between-made was sent away, and Aunt Emma came on a visit. Aunt Emma was much older than Mother. She was going abroad to be a governess. She was very busy getting her clothes ready, and they were very ugly, dingy clothes, and she had them always littering about, and the sewing machine seemed to wear on and on all day, and most of the night. Aunt Emma believed in keeping children in their proper places, and they more than returned the compliment. Her idea of Aunt Emma's proper place was anywhere where they were not. So they saw very little of her. They preferred the company of the servants, who were more amusing. Cook, if in a good temper, could sing comic songs, and the housemaid, if she happened not to be offended with you, could imitate a hen that has laid an egg, a bottle of champagne being opened, and could mew like two cats fighting. The servants never told the children what the bad news was that the gentleman had brought to father, but they kept hinting that they could tell a great deal if they chose, and this was not comfortable. One day, when Peter had made a booby-trap over the bathroom door, and it had acted beautifully as Ruth passed through, that red-haired parlour-maid caught him and boxed his ears. You'll come to a bad end," she said furiously. You nasty little limb-you! If you don't mend your ways, you'll go where your precious father's gone, so I tell you straight." Roberta repeated this to her mother, and next day Ruth was sent away. Then came the time when mother came home and went to bed and stayed there two days, and the doctor came, and the children crept wretchedly about the house, wondering if the world was coming to an end. Mother came down one morning to breakfast for a pale and with lines on her face that used not to be there, and she smiled as well as she could and said, Now my pets, everything is settled. We're going to leave this house and go live in the country. Such a ducky dear little white house. I know you'll love it. A whirling week of packing followed, not just packing clothes, like when you go to the seaside, but packing chairs and tables, covering their tops with sacking and their legs with straw. All sorts of things were packed that you don't pack when you go to the seaside, crockery, blankets, candlesticks, carpets, bedsteads, saucepans, and even fenders and fire-ions. The house was like a furniture warehouse. I think the children enjoyed it very much. Mother was very busy, but not too busy now to talk to them and read to them, and even to make a bit of poetry for Phyllis, to cheer her up when she fell down with a screwdriver and ran it into her hand. Aren't you going to pack this, Mother? Roberta asked, pointing to the beautiful cabinet inlaid with red turtle shell and brass. We can't take everything, said Mother. But we seem to be taking all the ugly things, said Roberta. We're taking the useful ones, said Mother. We've got to play it being poor for a bit, my chickabitty. When all the ugly, useful things had been packed up and taken away in a van by men in Green Bay's aprons, the two girls and Mother and Aunt Emma slept in the two spare rooms where the furniture was all pretty, all their beds had gone. The bed was made up for Peter on the drawing-room sofa. I say this is Lux. He said, wriggling joyously as Mother tucked him up. I do like moving. I wish we moved once a month. Mother laughed. I don't. She said, Good night, Peterkin. As she turned away Roberta saw her face. She never forgot it. Oh, Mother. She called to herself as she got into bed. How brave you are! How I love you! Fancy being brave enough to laugh when you're feeling like that. Next day, boxes were filled and boxes and more boxes, and then late in the afternoon a cab came to take them to the station. Aunt Emma saw them off. They felt as if they were seeing her off, and they were glad of it. Oh, those poor little foreign children that she's going to govern us! whispered Phyllis. I wouldn't be them for anything. At first they enjoyed looking out of the window, but when it grew dusk they grew sleepier and sleepier, and no one knew how long they had been in the train when they were roused by mothers shaking them gently and saying, Wake up, dears, we're there. They woke up, cold and melancholy, and stood shivering on the draughty platform while the baggage was taken out of the train. Then the engine, puffing and blowing, set to work again and dragged the train away. The children watched the taillights of the guards' van disappear into the darkness. This was the first train the children saw on that railway, which was in time to become so very dear to them. They did not guess, then, how they would grow to love the railway and how soon it would become the centre of their new life, nor what wonders and changes it would bring to them. They only shivered and sneezed and hoped the walk to the new house would not be long. Peter's nose was colder than he ever remembered it to have been before. Roberta's hat was crooked and the elastic seemed tighter than usual. Phyllis's shoelaces had come undone. Come, said Mother. We've got to walk. There aren't any cabs here. The walk was dark and muddy. The children stumbled a little on the rough road and once Phyllis absently fell into a puddle and was picked up, damp and unhappy. There were no gas lamps on the road and the road was uphill. The cart went at a foot pace and they followed the gritty crunch of its wheels. As their eyes got used to the darkness they could see the mound of boxes swaying dimly in front of them. A long gate had to be opened for the cart to pass through and after that the road seemed to go across fields and now it went downhill. Presently a great dark, lumpish thing showed over to the right. There's the house, said Mother. I wonder why she's shut the shutters. Who's she? asked Roberta. The woman I engaged to clean the place and put the furniture straight and get supper. There was a low wall and trees inside. That's the garden, said Mother. It looks more like a dripping pan full of black cabbages, said Peter. The cart went on along by the garden wall and round to the back of the house. And here it clattered into a cobblestone yard and stopped at the back door. There was no light in any of the windows. Everyone hammered at the door, but no one came. The man who drove the cart said he expected Mrs. Viney had gone home. You see your train was that late, said he. But she's got the key, said Mother. What are we to do? I'll sure have left that under the doorstep, said the cartman. Folks do hear abouts. He took the lantern off his cart and stooped. Yeah, here it is, right enough. He said he unlocked the door and went in and set his lantern on the table. Got here, candle? said he. I don't know where anything is. Mother spoke rather less cheerfully than usual. He struck a match. There was no candle on the table, and he lighted it. By its thin little glimmer the children saw a large, bare kitchen with a stone floor. There were no curtains, no hearthrug. The kitchen table from home stood in the middle of the room. The chairs were in one corner and the pots, pans, brooms, and crockery in another. There was no fire, and the black grate showed cold, dead ashes. He turned to go out after he had brought in the boxes. There was a rustling, scampering sound that seemed to come from inside the walls of the house. Oh, what's that? cried the girls. It's only the rats, said the cartman. And he went away and shut the door, and the sudden draught of it blew out the candle. Oh, dear! said Phyllis. I wish we hadn't come. And she knocked a chair over. Only the rats! said Peter in the dark. What fun! said Mother in the dark, feeling for the matches on the table. How frightened the poor mice were! I don't believe there were rats at all. She struck a match and relighted the candle. And everyone looked at each other by its winky, blinky light. Well, she said, You've often wanted something to happen, and now it has. This is quite an adventure, isn't it? I told Mrs. Viney to get us some bread and butter, and meat and things, and to have supper ready. I suppose she's laid it in the dining-room, so let's go and see. The dining-room opened out of the kitchen. It looked much darker than the kitchen when they went in with the one candle, because the kitchen was whitewashed, but the dining-room was dark wood from floor to ceiling, and across the ceiling there were heavy black beams. There was a muddled maze of dusty furniture, the breakfast-room furniture from the old home, where they had lived all their lives. It seemed a very long time ago, and a very long way off. There was the table, certainly, and there were chairs, but there was no supper. Let's look in the other rooms. Said Mother, and they looked, and in each room was the same kind of blundering half-arrangement of furniture, and fire-ions and crockery and all sorts of odd things on the floor, but there was nothing to eat. Even in the pantry there were only a rusty caked-in and a broken plate with whitening mixed in it. What a horrid old woman! Said Mother, she just walked off with the money and not got us anything to eat at all. Then shan't we have any supper at all? Asked Phyllis, dismayed, stepping back on a soap-dish that cracked responsively. Oh, yes! said Mother. Only it'll mean unpacking one of those big cases we put in the cellar. Phil, do mind where you're walking to. There's a deer. Peter, hold the light. The cellar door opened out of the kitchen. There were five wooden steps leading down. It wasn't a proper cellar at all, the children thought, because its ceiling went up as high as the kitchen's. A bacon-rack hung under its ceiling. There was wood in it and coal, also the big cases. Peter held the candle all on one side, while Mother tried to open the great packing-case. It was very securely nailed down. Where's the hammer? Asked Peter. That's just it. Said Mother. I'm afraid it's inside the box. But there's a coal shovel. And there's the kitchen poker. And with these she tried to get the case open. Let me do it. Said Peter, thinking he could do it better himself. Everyone thinks this when he sees another person stirring a fire or opening a box or untieing a knot in a bit of string. You hurt your hands, Mammy. Said Roberta. Let me. I wish Father was here. Said Phyllis. He'd get it open in two shakes. What are you kicking me for, Bobby? I wasn't. Said Roberta. Just then the first of the long nails in the packing-case began to come out with a scrunch. Then a lath was raised and then another, till all four stood up with the long nails in them shining fiercely like iron teeth in the candle-light. Hey! Said Mother. Here are some candles, the very first thing. You girls go and light them. You'll find some saucers and things. Just drop a little candle grease in the saucer and stick the candle upright in it. How many shall we light? As many as ever you like. Said Mother Gailey. The great thing is to be cheerful. Nobody can be cheerful in the dark except owls and dormice. So the girls lighted candles. The head of the first match flew off and stuck to Phyllis' finger. But, as Roberta said, it was only a little burn and she might have had to be a Roman martyr and be burned whole if she had happened to live in the days when those things were fashionable. Then, when the dining-room was lighted by fourteen candles, Roberta fetched coal and wood and lighted a fire. It's very cold for me. I'm not understanding what a grown-up thing it was to say. The fire-light and the candle-light made the dining-room look very different. For now you could see that the dark walls were of wood, carved here and there into little wreaths and loops. The girls hastily tidied the room which meant putting the chairs against the wall and piling all the odds and ends into a corner and partly hiding them with the big leather armchair Father used to sit in after dinner. Bravo! cried Mother, coming in with a tray full of things. This is something like. I'll just get a tablecloth and then. The tablecloth was in a box with a proper lock that was opened with a key and not with a shovel, and when the cloth was spread on the table a real feast was laid out on it. Everyone was very, very tired, but everyone cheered up at the sight of the funny and delightful supper. There were biscuits, the Murray and the Plainkind, sardines, preserved ginger, cooking raisins, and candied peel and marmalade. What a good thing Aunt Emma packed up all the odds and ends out of the store cupboard, said Mother. Now, Phil, don't put the marmalade spoon in among the sardines. No, I won't, Mother, said Phyllis, and put it down among Murray biscuits. Let's drink Aunt Emma's health, said Roberta suddenly. What should we have done if she hadn't packed up these things? Here's to Aunt Emma. And the toast was drunk in ginger wine and water out of willow-patterned tea cups because the glasses couldn't be found. They all felt that they had been a little hard on Aunt Emma. She wasn't a nice, cuddly person like Mother, but after all she had thought of packing up the odds and ends of things to eat. It was Aunt Emma, too, who had aired all the sheets ready, and the men who had moved the furniture had put the bedsteads together, so the beds were soon made. Good night, chickies, said Mother. I'm sure there aren't any rats, but I'll leave my door open, and then, if a mouse comes, you need only scream and I'll come and tell it exactly what I think of it. And a girl had opened her own room. Roberta woke to hear the little travelling clock chime, too. It sounded like a church clock ever so far away, she always thought. And she heard, too, Mother still moving about in her room. Next morning, Roberta woke Phyllis by pulling her hair gently, but quite enough for her purpose. Was a mirror! Asked Phyllis still almost asleep. "'Wake up, wake up,' said Roberta. "'We're in the new house, don't you remember? No servants or anything. Let's get up and begin to be useful. We'll just creep down, mouse quietly, and have everything beautiful before mother gets up. I've walked Peter. He'll be dressed as soon as we are.' So they dressed quietly and quickly. Of course there was no water in their room, so when they got down they washed as much as they thought was necessary, under the spout of the pump in the yard, one pumped, and the other washed. It was splashy but interesting. "'It's much more fun than basin-washing,' said Roberta. "'How sparkly the weeds are between the stones, and the moss on the roof. Oh, and the flowers!' The roof of the back kitchen sloped down quite low. It was made of thatch, and it had moss on it, and house-leaks, and stone-crop, and wall-flowers, and even a clump of purple flag-flowers at the far corner. "'This is far, far, far, and a way prettier than Edgecomb Villa,' said Phyllis. "'I wonder what the garden's like.' "'We mustn't think of the garden yet,' said Roberta, with earnest energy. "'Let's go in and begin to work.' They lighted the fire and put the kettle on, and they arranged the crockery for breakfast. They could not find all the right things, but a glass ashtray made an excellent salt-seller, and a newish baking-tin seemed as if it would do to put bread on, if they had any. When there seemed to be nothing more that they could do, they went out again into the fresh bright morning. "'We'll go into the garden now,' said Peter, but somehow they couldn't find the garden. They went round the house and round the house. The yard occupied the back, and across it were stables and out-buildings. On the other three sides the house stood simply in a field, without a yard of garden to divide it from the short, smooth turf, and yet they had certainly seen the garden-wall the night before. It was a hilly country, down below they could see the line of the railway, and the black, yawning mouth of a tunnel. The station was out of sight. There was a great bridge with tall arches running across one end of the valley. "'Never mind the garden,' said Peter. "'Let's go down and look at the railway. There might be trains passing.' "'We can see them from here,' said Roberta slowly. "'Let's sit down a bit.' So they all sat down on a great, flat, grey stone that had pushed itself up out of the grass. It was one of many that lay about on the hillside, and when mother came out to look for them at eight o'clock she found them deeply asleep in a contented, sun-warmed bunch. They had made an excellent fire, and had set the kettle on it at about half-past five, so that by eight the fire had been out for some time, the water had all boiled away, and the bottom was burned out of the kettle. Also they had not thought of washing the crockery before they set the table. "'But it doesn't matter. The cups and saucers, I mean,' said mother. "'Because I found another room. I'd quite forgotten there was one. And it's magic. And I've boiled the water for tea in a saucepan.' The forgotten room opened out of the kitchen. In the agitation and half-darkness the night before, its door had been mistaken for a cupboard's. It was a little square room, and on its table, all nicely set out, was a joint of cold roast beef, with bread, butter, cheese, and a pie.' "'Pie for breakfast!' cried Peter. "'How perfectly ripping!' "'It isn't pigeon pie,' said mother. "'It's only apple. Well, this is the supper we ought to have had last night, and there was a note from Mrs. Viney. Her son-in-law has broken his arm, and she had to get home early. She's coming this morning at ten.' That was a wonderful breakfast. It is unusual to begin the day with cold apple pie, but the children all said they would rather have it than meet. "'You see, it's more like dinner than breakfast to us,' said Peter, passing his plate for more. "'Because we were up so early.' The day passed in helping mother to unpack and arrange things. Six small legs, quite ached, with running about while their owners carried clothes and crockery, and all sorts of things, to their proper places. It was not till quite late in the afternoon that mother said, "'There! That'll do for today. I'll lie down for an hour, so as to be fresh as a lark by supper-time.' Then they all looked at each other. Each of the three expressive countenances expressed the same thought. That thought was double, and consisted, like the bits of information in the child's guide to knowledge, of a question and an answer. Question where shall we go? Answer to the railway. So to the railway they went, and as soon as they started for the railway they saw where the garden had hidden itself. It was right behind the stables, and it had a high wall all round. "'Oh, never mind about the garden now,' cried Peter. "'Mother told me this morning where it was. It'll keep till tomorrow. Let's get to the railway.' The way to the railway was all downhill, over smooth, short turf, with here and there furs-bushes, and grey and yellow rocks sticking out like candied peels from the top of a cake. The way ended in a steep run and a wooden fence, and there was the railway, with the shining metals and the telegraph wires and posts and signals. They all climbed onto the top of the fence, and then suddenly there was a rumbling sound that made them look along the line to the right, where the dark mouth of a tunnel opened itself in the face of a rocky cliff. Next moment a train had rushed out of the tunnel with a shriek and a snort, and had slid noisily past them. They felt the rush of its passing, and the pebbles on the line jumped and rattled under it as it went by. "'Oh,' said Reversa, drawing a long breath. "'It was like a great dragon tearing by. Did you feel it fan us with its hot wings?' "'I suppose a dragon's lair might look very like that tunnel from the outside,' said Phyllis. "'But Peter,' said—'I never thought we should ever get as near to a train as this. It's the most ripping sport.' "'Better than toy engines, isn't it?' said Reversa. "'I am tired of calling Reversa by her name. I don't see why I should. No one else did. Everyone else called her Bobby, and I don't see why I shouldn't.' "'I don't know. It's different,' said Peter. "'It seems so odd to see all of a train. It's awfully tall, isn't it?' "'We've always seen them cut in half by platforms,' said Phyllis. "'I wonder if that train was going to London,' Bobby said. "'London's where farther is. "'Let's go down to the station and find out,' said Peter. So they went. They walked along the edge of the line, and heard the telegraph wires humming over their heads. "'When you're in the train, it seems such a little way between post and post, and one after another the posts seem to catch up the wires almost more quickly than you can count them. But when you have to walk, the posts seem few and far between. But the children got to the station at last. Never before had any of them been at a station except for the purpose of catching trains, or perhaps waiting for them, and always with grown-ups in attendance, grown-ups who were not themselves interested in stations, except as places from which they wished to get away. Never before had they passed close enough to a signal box to be able to notice the wires, and to hear the mysterious ping-ping followed by the strong firm clicking of machinery, the very sleepers on which the rails lay, were a delightful path to travel by, just far enough apart to serve as the stepping-stones in a game of foaming torrents hastily organised by Bobby. Then to arrive at the station, not through the booking-office, but in a free-booting sort of way by the sloping end of the platform, this in itself was joy. Joy, too, it was, to peep into the porter's room where the lamps are and the railway almanac on the wall, and one porter half asleep behind a paper. There were a great many crossing lines at the station, some of them just ran into a yard and stopped short, as though they were tired of business and meant to retire for good. Trucks stood on the rails here, and on one side was a great heap of coal, not a loose heap, such as you see in your coal-seller, but a sort of solid building of coals, with large square blocks of coal outside, used just as though they were bricks, and built up till the heap looked like the picture of the cities of the plain in Bible stories for infants. There was a line of whitewash near the top of the coaly wall. When presently the porter lounged out of his room at the twice-repeated tingling thrill of a gong over the station door, Peter said, How do you do? In his best manner, and hastened to ask what the white mark was on the coal for. To mark how much coal there be? said the porter. So as we'll know if any one nicks it. So don't you go off with none in your pockets, young gentleman? This seemed at the time but a merry jest, and Peter felt at once that the porter was a friendly sort with no nonsense about him, but later the words came back to Peter with a new meaning. Have you ever gone into a farmhouse kitchen on a baking day and seen the great crock of dough set by the fire to rise? If you have, and if you were at that time still young enough to be interested in everything you saw, you will remember that you found yourself quite unable to resist the temptation to poke your finger into the soft round of dough that's curved inside the pan like a giant mushroom, and you will remember that your finger made a dent in the dough, and that slowly, but quite surely the dent disappeared, and the dough looked quite the same as it did before you touched it, unless, of course, your hand was extra dirty, in which case naturally there would be a little black mark. Well, it was just like that, with the sorrow the children had felt at father's going away, and at mother's being so unhappy. It made a deep impression, but the impression did not last long. They soon got used to being without father, though they did not forget him, and they got used to not going to school, and to seeing very little of mother, who was now, almost all day, shut up in her upstairs room, writing, writing, writing. She used to come down at tea-time and read aloud the stories she had written. They were lovely stories. The rocks and hills and valleys and trees, the canal, and above all the railway, were so new and so perfectly pleasing that the remembrance of the old life in the villa grew to seem almost like a dream. Mother had told them more than once that they were quite poor now, but this did not seem to be anything but a way of speaking. Grown-up people, even mothers, often make remarks that don't seem to mean anything in particular, just for the sake of saying something seemingly. There was always enough to eat, and they wore the same kind of nice clothes they had always worn. But in June came three wet days. The rain came down, straight as lances, and it was very, very cold. Nobody could go out, and everybody shivered. They all went up to the door of Mother's room and knocked. Well, what is it? Asked Mother from inside. Mother, said Bobby. Mayn't I light a fire? I do know how. And Mother said. No, my ducky love, we mustn't have fires in June. Coal is so dear. If you're cold, go and have a good romp in the attic. That'll warm you. But, Mother, it only takes such a very little coal to make a fire. It's more than we can afford, chickeny love, said Mother cheerfully. Now run away. There's, darlings. I'm madly busy. Mother's always busy now, said Phyllis in a whisper to Peter. Peter did not answer. He shrugged his shoulders. He was thinking. Thought, however, could not long keep itself from the suitable furnishing of a bandit's layer in the attic. Peter was the bandit, of course. Bobby was his lieutenant, his band of trusty robbers, and in due course the parent of Phyllis, who was the captured maiden for whom a magnificent ransom, in horse-beens, was unhesitatingly paid. They all wed down to tea, flushed and joyous as any mountain brigands. But when Phyllis was going to add jam to her bread-and-butter, Mother said, Jam or butter, dear? Not jam and butter. She can't afford that sort of reckless luxury nowadays. Phyllis finished the slice of bread-and-butter in silence, and followed it up by bread-and-jam. Peter mingled thought and weak tea. After tea they went back to the attic, and he said to his sisters, I have an idea. What's that? They asked politely. I shan't tell you. Was Peter's unexpected rejoinder? Oh, very well. Said Bobby, and Phyll said, Don't then! Girls! said Peter Are always so hasty-tempered. I should like to know what boys are. said Bobby with fine disdain. I don't want to know about your silly ideas. You'll know some day. said Peter, keeping his own temper by what looked exactly like a miracle. If you hadn't been so keen on a row, I might have told you about it, being only noble-heartedness that made me not tell you my idea, but now I shan't tell you anything at all about it, so there. And it was indeed, some time, before he could be induced to say anything, and when he did it wasn't much. He said The only reason why I won't tell you my idea that I'm going to do is because it may be wrong, and I don't want to drag you into it. Don't you do it if it's wrong, Peter? said Bobby Let me do it. But Phyllis said I should like to do wrong if you're going to. No, said Peter. It's a full-on hope, and I'm going to lead it. All I ask is that if Mother asks where I am, you won't blab. We haven't got anything too blab, said Bobby indignantly. Oh, yes you have, said Peter, dropping horse-beans through his fingers. I've trusted you to the death. You know I'm going to do a lone adventure, and some people might think it wrong. I don't. And if Mother asks where I am, say I'm playing at mines. What sort of mines? You just say mines. You might tell us, Pete. Well then, coal mines. But don't you let the word pass your lips on pain of torture. You needn't threaten, said Bobby. And I do think you might let us help. If I find a coal mine, you shall help to cap the coal. Peter condescended to promise. Keep your secret, if you like, said Phyllis. Keep it if you can, said Bobby. I'll keep it right enough, said Peter. In tea and supper there is an interval even in the most greedily regulated families. At this time Mother was usually writing, and Mrs. Viney had gone home. Two nights after the dawning of Peter's idea, he beckoned the girls mysteriously at the twilight hour. Come hither with me, he said, and bring the Roman chariot. The Roman chariot was a very old perambulator that had spent years of retirement in the loft over the coach-house. The children had oiled its works till it glided noiselessly as a pneumatic bicycle, and answered to the helm as it had probably done in its best days. Follow your dauntless leader, said Peter, and led the way down the hill towards the station. Just above the station many rocks have pushed their heads out through the turf as though they, like the children, were interested in the railway. In a little hollow between three rocks lay a heap of dried brambles and heather. Peter, halted, turned over the brushwood with a well-scarred boot, and said, Here's the first coal from the St. Peter's mine. We'll take it home in the chariot. Punctuality and dispatch, all orders carefully attended to, any shaped lump cut to suit regular customers. The chariot was packed full of coal, and when it was packed it had to be unpacked again, because it was so heavy that it couldn't be got up the hill by the three children, not even when Peter harnessed himself to the handle with his braces and firmly grasping his waistband in one hand pulled while the girls pushed behind. Three journeys had to be made before the coal from Peter's mine was added to the heap of mother's coal in the cellar. Afterwards Peter went out alone and came back very black and mysterious. I've been to my coal mine, he said. Tomorrow evening we'll bring home the black diamonds in the chariot. It was a week later that Mrs. Viney remarked to mother how well this last lot of coal was holding out. The children hugged themselves and each other in complicated wriggles of silent laughter as they listened on the stairs. They had all forgotten by now that there had ever been any doubt in Peter's mind as to whether coal mining was wrong. But there came a dreadful night when the station master put on a pair of old sand shoes that he had worn at the seaside in his summer holiday and crept out very quietly to the yard where the Sodom and Gomorrah heap of coal was with the whitewashed line round it. He crept out there and he waited like a cat by a mouse-hole. On the top of the heap something small and dark was scrabbling and rattling furtively among the coal. The station master concealed himself in the shadow of a brake-van that had a little tin chimney and was labelled GM and SR 34576, return at once to white heather sidings. And in this concealment he lurked till the small thing on the top of the heap ceased to scrabble and rattle and came to the edge of the heap, cautiously let itself down and lifted something after it. Then the arm of the station master was raised, the hand of the station master fell on a collar and there was Peter firmly held by the jacket with an old carpenter's bag full of coal in his trembling clutch. So I've caught you at last, have I, you young thief? said the station master. I'm not a thief. I've said Peter as firmly as he could. I'm a coal miner. Tell that to the marines, said the station master. It would be just as true whoever I told it to, said Peter. You're right there, said the man who held him. Stow your jaw, you young rip, and come along to the station. Oh, no! cried in the darkness an agonised voice that was not Peter's. Not the police station? said another voice from the darkness. Not yet, said the station master. The railway station first. Why, it's a regular gang. Any more of you? Only us! said Bobby and Phyllis, coming out of the shadow of another truck, labelled stavely colliery, and bearing on it the legend in white chalk wanted in number one road. What do you mean by spying on a fellow like this? said Peter angrily. Time someone did spy on you, I think, said the station master. Come along to the station. Oh, don't! said Bobby. Can't you decide now what you'll do to us? It's our fault just as much as Peter's. We helped to carry the coal away, and we knew where he got it. No, you didn't! said Peter. Yes, we did. said Bobby. We knew all the time. We only pretended we didn't just to humour you. Peter's cup was full. He had mined for coal. He had struck coal. He had been caught, and now he learned that his sisters had humoured him. Don't hold me. He said. I won't run away. The station master loosed Peter's collar, struck a match, and looked at them by its flickering light. Why? said he. You're the children from the three chimneys up yonder. So nicely dressed, too. Tell me now, what made you do such a thing? Haven't you ever been to church, or learned your catechism, or anything? Not to know it's wicked to steal? He spoke much more gently now, and Peter said— I didn't think it was stealing. I was almost sure it wasn't. I thought if I took it from the outside part of the heap, perhaps it would be. But in the middle I thought I could fairly count it only mining. It'll take thousands of years for you to burn up all that coal and get to the middle parts. Not quite. But did you do it for a lark, or what? Not much lark, carting that beastly heavy stuff up the hill. Said Peter indignantly. Then why did you? The station master's voice was so much kinder now that Peter replied— You know that wed day? Well, Mother said we were too poor to have a fire. We always had fires when it was cold at our other house, and don't. Interrupted Bobby in a whisper. Well— Said the station master, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll look over at this once. You remember, young gentleman, stealing is stealing, and what's mine is yours, whether you call it mining or whether you don't. Run along home. Do you mean you aren't going to do anything to us? Well, you are a brick. Said Peter with enthusiasm. You're a deer. Said Bobby. You're a darling. Said Phyllis. That's all right. Said the station master, and on this they parted. Don't speak to me. Said Peter, as the three went up the hill. Your spies and traitors, that's what you are. But the girls were too glad to have Peter between them, safe and free, and on the way to three chimneys and not to the police station, to mind much what he said. We did say it was us as much as you. Said Bobby gently. Well, and it wasn't. It would have come to the same thing in court with judges. Said Phyllis. Don't be snarky, Peter. It isn't our fault that your secrets are so generally easy to find out. She took his arm, and he let her. There's an awful lot of coal in the cellar anyhow. He went on. Oh, don't. Said Bobby. I don't think we ought to be glad about that. I don't know. Said Peter, plucking up a spirit. I'm not at all sure even now that mining is a crime. But the girls were quite sure, and they were also quite sure that he was quite sure. However little he cared to own it. End of Chapter 2 Chapter 3 of The Railway Children. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Railway Children by Edith Nesbitt. Chapter 3 The Old Gentleman. After the adventure of Peter's coal mine, it seemed well to the children to keep away from the station. But they did not. They could not keep away from the railway. They had lived all their lives in a street where cabs and omnibuses rumbled by at all hours, and the carts of butchers and bakers and candlestick makers. I never saw a candlestick maker's cart, did you? Might occur at any moment. Here, in the deep silence of the sleeping country, the only things that went by were the trains. They seemed to be all that was left to link the children to the old life that had once been theirs. Straight down the hill in front of three chimneys, the daily passage of their six feet began to mark a path across the crisp short turf. They began to know the hours when certain trains passed, and they gave names to them. The nine-fifteen up was called the Green Dragon. The ten-seven down was the Worm of Wontley. The Midnight Town Express, whose shrieking rush they sometimes woke from their dreams to hear, was the fearsome fly-by-night. Peter got up once in chill starshine, and, peeping at it through his curtains, named it on the spot. It was by the Green Dragon that the old gentleman travelled. He was a very nice-looking old gentleman, and he looked as if he were nice, too, which is not at all the same thing. He had a fresh-coloured, clean-shaven face and white hair, and he wore rather odd-shaped collars, and a top hat that wasn't exactly the same kind as other people's. Of course the children didn't seal this at first. In fact, the first thing they noticed about the old gentleman was his hand. It was one morning, as they sat on the fence waiting for the Green Dragon, which was three-and-a-quarter minutes late by Peter's Waterbury watch, that he had given him on his last birthday. The Green Dragon's going where Father is, said Phyllis. If it were a really, real dragon, we could stop it, and ask it to take our love to Father. Dragons don't carry people's love, said Peter. They'd be above it. Yes, they do, if you tame them thoroughly first. They fetch and carry, like pet spaniels, said Phyllis, and feed out of your hand. I wonder why Father never writes to us. Mother says he's been too busy, said Bobby. But he'll write soon, she says. I say, Phyllis suggested, let's all wave to the Green Dragon as it goes by. If it's a magic dragon, it'll understand and take our love to Father. And if it isn't, three waves aren't much. We shall never miss them. So when the Green Dragon tore shrieking out of the mouth of its dark lair, which was the tunnel, all three children stood on the railing and waved their pocket handkerchiefs, without stopping to think whether they were clean handkerchiefs or the reverse. They were, as a matter of fact, very much the reverse. And out of a first-class carriage, a hand waved back. A quite clean hand, it held a newspaper. It was the old gentleman's hand. After this, it became the custom for waves to be exchanged between the children and the nine-fifteen. And the children, especially the girls, liked to think that perhaps the old gentleman knew Father and would meet him. In business. Wherever that shady retreat might be, and tell him how his three children stood on a rail far away in the Green Country, and waved their love to him every morning, wet or fine. For they were now able to go out in all sorts of weather, such as they would never have been allowed to go out in when they lived in their villa-house. This was Aunt Emma's doing, and the children felt more and more that they had not been quite fair to this unattractive aunt, when they found how useful were the long gaiters and waterproof coats that they had laughed at her for buying for them. Mother, all this time, was very busy with her writing. She used to send off a good many long blue envelopes with stories in them, and large envelopes of different sizes and colours used to come to her. Sometimes she would sigh when she opened them and say, Another story come home to roost, oh dear, oh dear. And then the children would be very sorry. But sometimes she would wave the envelope in the air and say, Hooray! Hooray! Here's a sensible editor. He's taken my story, and this is the proof of it. At first the children thought the proof meant the letter the sensible editor had written, but they presently got to know that the proof was long slips of paper with the story printed on them. Whenever an editor was sensible there were buns for tea. One day Peter was going down to the village to get buns to celebrate the sensibleness of the editor of the Children's Globe when he met the stationmaster. Peter felt very uncomfortable, for he had now had time to think over the affair of the coal mine. He did not like to say, Good morning. To the stationmaster as you usually do to anyone you meet on a lonely road, because he had a hot feeling which spread even to his ears that the stationmaster might not care to speak to a person who had stolen coals. Stolen is a nasty word, but Peter felt it was the right one, so he looked down and said nothing. It was the stationmaster who said, Good morning. As he passed by, and Peter answered, Good morning. Then he thought, Perhaps he doesn't know who I am by daylight or he wouldn't be so polite. And he did not like the feeling which thinking this gave him. And then before he knew what he was going to do, he ran after the stationmaster, who stopped when he heard Peter's hasty boots crunching the road, and coming up with him very breathless and with his ears now quite magenta-coloured. He said, I don't want you to be polite to me if you don't know me when you see me. I, said the stationmaster, I thought perhaps you didn't know it was me that took the coals. Peter went on. When you said, Good morning. But it was, and I'm sorry. There. I, said the stationmaster, I wasn't thinking anything at all about the precious coals, they're bygones be bygones. And where were you off to in such a hurry? I'm going to buy buns for tea, said Peter. I thought you were all so poor, said the stationmaster. So we are, said Peter confidentially. But we always have three penny-worth of hape-knees for tea, whenever mother sells a story or poem or anything. Huh, said the stationmaster. So your mother writes stories, does she? The beautifulest you ever read, said Peter. You ought to be very proud how it was such a clever mother. Yes, said Peter. But she used to play with us more, before she had to be so clever. Well, said the stationmaster. I must be going along. Yeah, give us a looking at the station wherever you feel so inclined. As to the coals, it's all worth that. Well, oh no, we never mention it, eh? Thank you, said Peter. I'm very glad it's all straightened out between us. And he went on across the canal bridge to the village to get the buns, feeling more comfortable in his mind than he had felt since the hand of the stationmaster had fastened on his collar that night among the coals. Next day, when they had sent the threefold wave of greeting to father by the green dragon, and the old gentleman had waved back as usual, Peter proudly led the way to the station. But ought we? said Bobby. After the coals, she means. Phyllis explained. I met the stationmaster yesterday. said Peter in an offhand way, and he pretended not to hear what Phyllis had said. And he express specially invited us to go down any time we liked. After the coals? repeated Phyllis. Stop a minute, my boot-lace is undone again. It always is undone again, said Peter. And the stationmaster was more of a gentleman than you'll ever be, Phil, throwing coal at a chap's head like that. Phyllis did up her boot-lace and went on in silence, but her shoulders shook, and, presently, a fat tear fell off her nose and splashed on the metal of the railway line. Bobby saw it. Why, what's the matter, darling? she said, stopping short and putting her arm round the heaving shoulders. He called me Uncle Menly. sobbed Phyllis. I didn't never call him un-ladylike. Not even when he tied my Chlorinda to the firewood bundle and burned her at the stake for a martyr. Peter had, indeed, perpetrated this outrage a year or two before. Well, you began, you know, said Bobby, honestly. About coals and all that, don't you think you'd better both unsay everything since the wave, and let honour be satisfied? I will if Peter will, said Phyllis, sniffling. All right, said Peter. Here, use my hanky-fill for goodness' sake, if you've lost yours as usual. I wonder what you'd do with them? You had my last one, said Phyllis, indignantly, to tie up the rabbit-hutch door with, but you're very ungrateful. It's quite right what it says in the poetry book about sharper than a serpent it is to have a toothless child, but it means ungrateful when it's toothless. Miss Lowe told me so. All right, said Peter, impatient. I'm sorry, there, now will you come on? They reached the station and spent a joyous two hours with the porter. He was a worthy man, and seemed never tired of answering the questions that begin with, which many people in higher ranks of life often seem weary of. He told them many things that they had not known before, as, for instance, that the things that hook carriages together are called couplings, and that the pipes, like great serpents, that hang over the couplings are meant to stop the train with. If you could get a hold of one of them when the train is going, and pull them apart, said he, she'd stopped it off with a jerk. Who's she? said Phyllis. The train, of course, said the porter. After that the train was never again it to the children. And you know the thing in the carriages where it says on it, five pounds fine for improper use. If you was to improperly use that, the train would stop. And if you used it properly? said Roberta. It had stopped just the same, I suppose, said he. But it isn't proper use, unless you're being murdered. There was an old lady once, someone kitted her on it, was a refreshment room bell, and she used it improper, not being in danger of her life, though hungry. And when the train stopped, and the guard came along expecting to find someone well-turing in their last moments, she says, Oh, please, mister, I'll take a glass of stew and a bath-bun. She says, and the train was seven minutes behind her time as it was. What did the guard say to the old lady? I don't know, replied the porter, but I lay she didn't forget it in a hurry whatever it was. In such delightful conversation the time went by all too quickly. The station master came out once or twice, from that sacred inner temple behind the place where the hole is that they sell you tickets through, and was most jolly with them all. Just as if Cole had never been discovered. Phyllis whispered to her sister. He gave them each an orange, and promised to take them up into the signal-box one of these days when he wasn't so busy. Several trains went through the station, and Peter noticed for the first time that engines have numbers on them, like cabs. Yes, said the porter, I know the young gent as used to take down the numbers of every single one he seed. In a green notebook, with silver corners it was, owing to his father being very well-to-do in the wholesale stationery. Peter felt that he could take down numbers too, even if he was not the son of a wholesale stationer, as he did not happen to have a green leather notebook with silver corners. The porter gave him a yellow envelope, and on it he noted, 379, 663, and felt that this was the beginning of what would be a most interesting collection. That night at tea he asked Mother if she had a green leather notebook with silver corners. She had not, but when she heard what he wanted it for she gave him a little black one. It has a few pages torn out, said she, but it will hold quite a lot of numbers, and when it's full I'll give you another. I'm so glad you like the railway. Only please, you mustn't walk on the line. Not if we face the way the train's coming, asked Peter, after a gloomy pause in which glances of despair were exchanged. No, really not, said Mother. Then Phyllis said, Mother, didn't you ever walk on the railway lines when you were little? Mother was an honest and honourable mother, so she had to say, Yes. Well then, said Phyllis. But, darlings, you don't know how fond I am of you. What should I do if you got hurt? Are you fond of us, than Granny was of you when you were little? Phyllis asked. Bobby made signs to her to stop, but Phyllis never did see signs, no matter how plain they might be. Mother did not answer for a minute. She got up to put more water in the teapot. No one, she said at last, ever loved any one more than my mother loved me. Then she was quiet again, and Bobby kicked Phyllis hard under the table, because Bobby understood a little bit the thoughts that were making Mother so quiet, the thoughts of the time when Mother was a little girl, and was all the world to her Mother. It seems so easy and natural to run to Mother when one is in trouble. Bobby understood a little how people do not leave off running to their Mothers when they are in trouble, even when they are grown up, and she thought she knew a little what it must be to be sad and have no Mother to run to any more. So she kicked Phyllis, who said, and then Mother laughed a little, and sighed, and said, Very well, then, only let me be sure you do know which way the trains come, and don't walk on the line near the tunnel, or near corners. Trains keep to the left like carriages, said Peter, so if we keep to the right we're bound to see them coming. Very well, said Mother, and I dare say you think that she ought not to have said it, but she remembered about when she was a little girl herself, and she did say it, and neither her own children, nor you, nor any other children in the world, could ever understand exactly what it cost her to do it. Only some few of you, like Bobby, may understand a very little bit. It was the very next day that Mother had to stay in bed, because her head ached so. Her hands were burning hot, and she would not eat anything, and her throat was very sore. If I was you, ma'am, said Mrs. Viney, I should take and send for the doctor. There's a lot of catchy complaints going about just now. My sister's eldest, she took a chill, and went to her inside, two years ago come Christmas, and she's never been the same girl since. Mother wouldn't at first, but in the evening she felt so much worse that Peter was sent to the house in the village that had three labyrinum trees by the gate, and on the gate a brass plate with W. W. Forest M.D. on it. W. W. Forest M.D. came at once. He talked to Peter on the way back. He seemed a most charming and sensible man, interested in railways and rabbits, and really important things. When he had seen Mother, he said it was influenza. Now, Lady Gravez, he said in the hall to Bobby, I suppose you'll want to be head nurse. Of course, said she. Well, then, I'll send down some medicine, keep up a good fire, have some strong beef tea made ready to give her as soon as the fever goes down, she can have grapes now, and beef essence, and soda water and milk, and you'd better get in a bottle of brandy, for best brandy. Cheap brandy is worse than poison. She asked him to write it all down, and he did. When Bobby showed Mother the list he had written, Mother laughed. It was a laugh, Bobby decided, though it was rather odd and feeble. Nonsense! Said Mother, laying in bed with eyes as bright as beads. I can't afford all that rubbish. Call Mrs. Viney to boil two pounds of scraggins of the neck of your dinners to-morrow, and I can have some of the broth. Yes, I should like some more water now, love. And will you get a basin and sponge my hands? Roberta obeyed. When she had done everything she could to make Mother less uncomfortable, she went down to the others. Her cheeks were very red, her lips set tight, and her eyes almost as bright as Mother's. She told them what the Doctor had said, and what Mother had said. And now, said she when she had told all, there's no one but us to do anything, and we've got to do it. I've got the shilling for the mutton. We can do without the beastly mutton, said Peter. Bread and butter will support life. People have lived on less on desert islands many a time. Of course, said his sister, and Mrs. Viney was sent to the village to get as much brandy and soda water and beef tea as she could buy for a shilling. But even if we never have anything to eat at all, said Phyllis, you can't get all those other things with our dinner money. No, said Bobby, frowning. We must find out some other way. Now think, everybody, just as hard as ever you can. They did think, and presently they talked. And later, when Bobby had gone up to sit with Mother, in case she wanted anything, the other two were very busy with scissors and a white sheet and a paintbrush, and the pot of Brunswick Black that Mrs. Viney used for grates and fenders. They did not manage to do what they wished exactly with the first sheet, so they took another out of the linen cupboard. It did not occur to them that they were spoiling good sheets, which cost good money. They only knew that they were making a good, but what they were making comes later. Bobby's bed had been moved into Mother's room, and several times in the night she got up to mend the fire and to give her mother milk and soda water. Mother talked to herself a good deal, but it did not seem to mean anything, and once she woke up suddenly and called out, Mama! Mama! And Bobby knew she was calling for Granny, and that she had forgotten that it was no use calling because Granny was dead. In the early morning Bobby heard her name and jumped out of bed and ran to Mother's bedside. Oh, ah, yes, I think I was asleep, said Mother. My poor little duck, how tired you'll be. I do hate to give you all this trouble. Trouble? said Bobby. Ah, don't cry, sweet. Mother said. I shall be all right in a day or two. And Bobby said. Yes. And tried to smile. When you are used to ten hours of solid sleep to get up three or four times in your sleep time makes you feel as though you had been up all night. Bobby felt quite stupid and her eyes were sore and stiff, but she tidied the room and arranged everything neatly before the doctor came. This was at half-past eight. Everything going on all right, little nurse? He said at the front door. Did you get the brandy? I've got the brandy. Said Bobby. In a little flat bottle. I didn't see the grapes or the beef tea, though. Said he. No. Said Bobby firmly. But you will to-morrow, and there's some beef stewing in the oven for beef tea. Who told you to do that? He asked. I noticed what Mother did when Phil had mumps. Right, said the doctor. Now you get your old woman to sit with your mother, and then you eat a good breakfast, and go straight to bed and sleep till dinner time. You can't afford to have the head nurse ill. He was really quite a nice doctor. When the nine-fifteen came out of the tunnel that morning, the old gentleman in the first-class carriage put down his newspaper, and got ready to wave his hand to the three children on the fence. But this morning there were not three. There was only one, and that was Peter. Peter was not on the railings either, as usual. He was standing in front of them, in an attitude like that of a showman, showing off the animals in a menagerie, or of the kind clergyman, when he points with a wand at the scenes from Palestine, when there is a magic lantern, and he is explaining it. Peter was pointing too, and what he was pointing at was a large white sheet nailed against the fence. On the sheet there were thick black letters more than a foot long. Some of them had run a little, because of Phyllis having put the Brunswick black on too eagerly, but the words were quite easy to read. And this is what the old gentleman and several other people in the train read in the large black letters on the white sheet. Look out at the station! A good many people did look out at the station, and were disappointed, for they saw nothing unusual. The old gentleman looked out too, and at first he too saw nothing more unusual than the graveled platform and the sunshine, and the wall-flowers and forget-me-nots in the station borders. It was only just as the train was beginning to puff and pull itself together to start again, that he saw Phyllis. She was quite out of breath with running. Oh! she said. I thought I'd missed you. My bootlaces would keep coming down, and I fell over them twice. Here, take it. She thrust a warm, dampish letter into his hand as the train moved. He leaned back in his corner, and opened the letter. This is what he read. Dear Mr, we do not know your name. Mother is ill, and the doctor says to give her the things at the end of the letter, but she says she can't afford it, and to get mutton for us, and she will have the broth. We do not know anybody here but you, because Father is away, and we do not know the address. Father will pay you, or if he has lost all his money or anything, Peter will pay you when he is a man. We promise it on our honour. I owe you for the things Mother wants. Signed Peter. Will you give the parcel to the station master, because of us not knowing what train you come down by? Say it is for Peter that was sorry about the calls, and he will know all right. Roberta. Phyllis. Peter. Then came the list of things the doctor had ordered. The old gentleman read it through once, and his eyebrows went up. He read it twice, and smiled a little. When he had read it thrice, he put it in his pocket, and went on reading the times. At about six that evening there was a knock at the back door. The three children rushed to open it, and there stood the friendly porter, who had told them so many interesting things about railways. He dumped down a big hamper on the kitchen flags. Old Gent. He said. He asked me to fetch it up straight away. Thank you very much. Said Peter, and then as the porter lingered he added, I'm most awfully sorry I haven't got tuppence to give you like Father does, but You drop it if you please. Said the porter indignantly. I wasn't thinking about no tuppences. I only wanted to say I was sorry your Mama wasn't so well, and to ask how she finds herself this evening. And I fetched her along a bit of sweetbrier, very sweet to smell it is. Tuppence indeed. Said he, and produced a bunch of sweet briar from his hat. Just like a conjurer. As Phyllis remarked afterwards. Thank you very much. Said Peter. And I beg your pardon about the tuppence. No offence. Said the porter untruly, but politely, and went. Then the children undid the hamper. First there was straw, and then there were fine shavings, and then came all the things they had asked for, and plenty of them, and then a good many things they had not asked for. Among others peaches and port wine, and two chickens. A cardboard box of big red roses with long stalks, and a tall thin green bottle of lavender water, and three smaller fatter bottles of odour cologne. There was a letter too. Dear Roberta and Phyllis and Peter. It said, Here are the things you want. Your mother will want to know where they came from. Tell her they were sent by a friend who heard she was ill. When she is well again you must tell her all about it, of course. And if she says you ought not to have asked for the things, tell her that I say you were quite right, and that I hope you will forgive me the liberty of allowing myself a very great pleasure. The letter was signed, G.P., something that the children couldn't read. I think we were right, said Phyllis. Right, of course we were right, said Bobby. All the same, said Peter, with his hands in his pockets. I don't exactly look forward to telling mother the whole truth about it. We're not to do it till she's well, said Bobby. And when she's well, we shall be so happy we shan't mind a little fuss like that. Oh, just look at the roses. I must take them up to her. And the sweet briar, said Phyllis, sniffing it loudly. Don't forget the sweet briar. As if I should, said Roberta. Mother told me the other day there was a thick hedge of it at her mother's house, when she was a little girl. End of chapter three