But unluckily 'we' only meant Anne and Serena and Maudie and I. Not Hebe--no, indeed. That was quite another story. _We_ wanted 'bracing,'

the doctor said--nice fresh hill or moor air, but for Hebe anything like cold or strong air was out of the question. In the first place she couldn't be moved for some time yet, and when she did go it must be to somewhere mild. He spoke of somewhere abroad first, but then he thought it would be getting too hot at the warm places, and as far as the others were concerned, there were just as good in England. So in a sort of a way it came to be settled that when Hebe did go, it should be to the Isle of Wight.

That didn't fix anything about the rest of us, however. And there were a good many things to think of.

I knew all about them. You see mums has always told me everything. She knows she can trust me. It's with it being so that I have anything to write. I'm behind the scenes. I don't see how children who are just told things straight off like, 'You're going to the seaside on Tuesday,' or 'Nurse is leaving to be married, and you're not going to have a regular nurse any more now you're so big'-- I don't see how they could have anything interesting to write. It's the way things work out that I think makes life interesting, and children don't often look at things that way. But I couldn't have helped it, for I knew all about how things happened, and how mother planned and thought them over, and when she was happy and when she was anxious. It was all like pictures moving along--one leading into another.

Just now mother was anxious. I've said already that we're not rich--not as rich as we look. That's to say it's not father's and mother's money, but gran's. Of course you might say that's the same thing--father being an only child and gran so proud of him being so clever and distinguished, though not in ways that make much money. But it isn't the same, however kind gran is.

And just now it was specially not the same. For, of course, long before this, gran had had to be told about the sad loss of the diamond ornament, and it wasn't in nature for him to be _pleased_ about it, now was it?

He'd very likely have been still more vexed if it hadn't been for the whooping-cough coming so soon upon the top of it. He didn't know that the one had brought the other, both thanks to Anne. Father and mother thought there was no need to tell him that part of it, for he was always ready to be down upon Anne. Her careless, thoughtless ways were just what worried him particularly.

But he was kind and loving in his own way. He never wrote another word of reproach about the diamond thing after he heard of the trouble we were in. He was very glad I didn't get the illness. I don't know that I am a special pet of his, but I'm the only boy and named after him. I daresay it's that, though, as far as real favourites go, I think it's Hebe he cares most for. He was terribly sorry about her, and wrote that if she needed anything expensive, mother wasn't to give two thoughts to the cost. That letter came just about the time Dr. Marshall said we should all go away, and mums and I had a talk over it.

'It's very good of gran,', said mums. 'I do think he's been wonderfully good. But still it doesn't show me what to do. You see, Jack, when Hebe goes away I _must_ go with her--I think Rowley and I could manage without nurse--and that would be pretty expensive to begin with. Still, I shouldn't so much mind writing to him about that, but it's for the rest of you. I don't see how I'm to manage it, and I don't want to worry your father just now. He is so busy with his new book, and he's been so put back with the anxiety and bad nights while Hebe was so ill.'

For you know it isn't only writing books father does. He's busy all day with his other work. I don't think I should say exactly what his appointment is, for then you'd know who he was, but it's to do with Parliament and the Government.

'Why can't we go to Furzely?' I said stupidly. For I had been told all about it having been let for six months. Furzely is our--at least gran's--country-house. It's not bad, but we're rather tired of it, and the housekeeper is grumpy. 'That wouldn't cost much, would it?'

'My dear boy, you forget, the Wilmingtons are to be there till August.'

'Oh, of course,' I said.

'And besides, Furzely isn't the sort of air Dr. Marshall wants for you all just now,' she went on. 'It's healthy, but it's nothing particular; it's not hill air or moor air. Besides, it's out of the question.

Strayling or Fewforest--those were the places he said, or somewhere in their neighbourhood. And I don't know either of them in the least. I've no idea if there are lodgings or houses to be got; besides a house would cost far too much, and I should have to send two or three servants. Oh dear, what troubles have come with gran's lending me that unlucky ornament!'

'I don't think that's quite fair, mums,' I couldn't help saying. 'The troubles have come through Anne's fault. I wish _she_ would see it that way, but I don't believe she thinks about it much now.'

'I hope she does,' said mother. 'And of course,' she went on, 'it's wrong of me to grumble so. _Illnesses_ come through n.o.body's fault! And I should be so thankful that Hebe is getting better that nothing else should seem anything. But it is real practical difficulty about money just now that I mind the most. You see, dear, I have to pay all your teachers just the same. It wouldn't be fair to Miss Stirling or any of them to stop just because the girls have got ill.'

I felt very sorry, and I didn't really know what to propose.

'Isn't there any one you could ask about those places?' I said.

'Mightn't we perhaps get lodgings at a farmhouse, where it wouldn't be at all dear? Not grand ones, you know, mums. And we'd all wait on ourselves a good deal, so that nurse could help the farmer's wife to cook for us if she needed. Nurse loves cooking.'

Mums' face cleared a little. She does worry sometimes more than she needs to.

'That would be very nice, Jack,' she said. 'I wonder if there's anybody who could tell us about where such a place is likely to be found.'

'We'd live quite plainly,' I went on. 'It would be fun to be almost like poor children for a while. I don't mean _poor_, poor children, but like rather well-off cottage children.'

'H-m,' said mother. 'I don't think you'd find it as amusing as you think. However, you would of course have to live plainly in some ways, but still it must be a comfortable sort of place. It would not do to run any risks for the girls after their illness.'

Just at that moment Alfred brought in a note that had come, and 'they,'

he said--why do servants always say 'they' for a messenger when there's only one?--'were waiting for an answer.'

The note was from young Mrs. Cha.s.serton, Cousin Dorothea. She had just come back to London, she said, and she was so sorry to hear how ill "the children" had all been'--thank you, all but one, if you please.

And would mother come to see her? She had got a horrid cold, and couldn't go out, but she wasn't a bit afraid of whooping-cough--she'd had it. 'Please come to tea this afternoon, and bring any child that's well enough to go out.'

'Oh, I can't,' said mother, 'I've too much on my mind!'

'Oh, do go,' I said, 'it'll do you good. You've not had the least little change for ever so long. And let me come with you, mums, as the others mayn't go out yet. I like Cousin Dorothea; and perhaps she could tell us of some farmhouse, as she's always lived in the country.'

So mother wrote a word to say she'd go.

And that afternoon we did go. I had never been in the Cha.s.sertons' house before. It was a nice little place, and it was all decked out like a doll's house with Dorothea's wedding presents. I amused myself very well by walking round the room looking at them all. They weren't very well arranged. There was a corner cupboard with gla.s.s doors, filled with china, and it was all mixty-maxty. Blue or plain-coloured china on the same shelf as many-coloured Dresden or oriental. (I know something about china, and I mean to know more before I've done with it.) The key was in the lock, and I couldn't resist opening the doors and moving one or two pieces to see how much better they might look.

But just then Dorothea called me over to tea. She was a sensible girl.

She'd had some bread-and-b.u.t.ter and jam ready spread, thicker than those silly wafer slices ladies eat, and the jam was my favourite--strawberry.

I felt very comfortable. I was glad I'd made mother come. She looked brighter.

I spoke to Cousin Dorothea about the bad way her china was arranged.

'Yes,' she said, 'I know it is.'

She spoke quite gravely, but still I thought I saw a kind of a smile go round the corners of her mouth. I suppose she was thinking it was very funny for a boy to care how china was arranged. I don't see why. Boys have got eyes, and some of them have got good taste--more than some girls.

'It was washed while we were away,' she said, 'and the housemaid put it all in, according to the size of the things, I suppose. Nothing to do with the colour or kinds.'

'I've moved a few of them,' I said; 'they look better already. You've got some nice bits; there are one or two very old; I think I saw some Worcester.'

'How learned you are, Jack!' said Dorothea.

But I didn't see it. Nothing's easier than to pick up a smattering--just enough to tell one cup from another, and to seem very wise about it. I didn't mean to do that.

'No,' I said; 'I'm not. There's one cup I can't make out at all.'

'Do you mean the one with the deep purplish flowers?' said she. 'Oh, it is sharp of you to have spotted that one! No one knows for certain what it is; it was given me by an old servant of ours who married and went to live up in Yorkshire; and once when we were at Harrogate we went to see her. She said there were a few old pieces of it in the cottage her husband and she lived at when they were first married, and she gave us each one for a keepsake.'

'Was she your nurse?' asked mother.

'No, only a housemaid; but she was a particularly nice woman, superior to her station. And she and her husband have got on very well. He was under-bailiff to Lord Uxfort up in the north, and then an uncle died and left him a small farm near--oh, where is it near? I forget,--but it's not so very far from London. I've always promised to go to see her some day.'

'That reminds me,' said mums. 'I haven't told you our present difficulty.'

Till now Dorothea had been hearing about the whooping-cough, and asking all about the diamond brooch losing. She had known about it, for father had written to Mr. Cha.s.serton to ask if Cousin Dorothea could possibly throw any light upon it,--had she noticed it on their way home, or had she only noticed it going there, or when?--but she hadn't been able to remember anything at all.

She _was_ sorry about it; she's very sweet, very sweet indeed, and nice to tell troubles to; she looks so sorry with her kind blue eyes, though I don't think she's a very clever girl.

'I feel quite guilty about it all,' she said; 'for it was for my sake you went to that unlucky Drawing-room, and that all these troubles came.

But what was the new one you were going to tell me about, dear Valeria?'

'Oh, that isn't exactly a trouble, only a difficulty,' said mums. And she went on to explain about the change to the country and my idea of a farmhouse.

Cousin Dorothea listened, and tried to look very wise.

'I'm afraid nowhere near my home would be any good,' she said.