WHEN Geoffrey and Priscilla got back, they found Loveday seated at the dining-room table, with a newspaper spread before her, to protect the table-cloth, a glass of water and a piece of white rag beside her, and before her an old bound volume of Little Folks, already open at the picture she had selected to paint. Close at her hand lay a little screw of white paper containing her tooth. She was all in readiness to begin, and very impatient at what she considered their long delay.  
“I do think you might have hurried,” she said, in an injured tone, “when you knew that I was not at all well.”
 
“What is the matter? You are all right now the tooth is out,” said Geoffrey teasingly.
 
“No, I am not. Look at the great hole between my teefs; it’s ’normous! I can put all my tongue in, nearly.”
 
“Well, don’t put any paint in, or you might die,” said Priscilla. “Loveday, dear, don’t you think I had better paint for you, while you look on?”
 
“No, I don’t,” said Loveday, who usually said exactly what she thought. “Geoffrey has got ‘sans poison’ paints, and I’ve got a piece of rag to wipe my brushes on, and I am waiting to begin.”
 
“Well, I think you are very greedy,” said Priscilla rather unjustly.
 
“No, I am not, I’ve been ill,” explained Loveday, looking up with a grave face and wide blue eyes full of reproach; “and when peoples are ill they are ’lowed to do what they like.”
 
“I don’t think you are ill. I think you are only greedy. I don’t call having just one tooth out being ill; but you make so much fuss about everything.”
 
“You don’t know how much it hurt me,” said Loveday, returning quite calmly to the mixing of her paints, her short golden curls falling all about her little flushed face. “It was—oh, it was somefin’ dreadful!”
 
“It couldn’t have been so very bad, or you would have screamed, I know;” and with this parting shot Priscilla walked away.
 
“Aren’t you going to watch me paint?” called Loveday anxiously.
 
“No, I am not,” said Priscilla shortly. She was feeling cross and dissatisfied, and she knew she was behaving unkindly, which did not help her to feel happier. Geoffrey had disappeared since he brought back the paint-box, and Priscilla felt dull and ; she could not think of anything she wanted to do. First of all she wandered up to the nursery, but it looked lonely, so she quickly came out again, and, strolling downstairs, went out into the yard.
 
The afternoon sun was shining hotly, right down into the yard, bringing out the beautiful of the mignonette and lemon-verbena in the box on the kitchen window-sill, and the smell of the scenty-leaved geranium. On the ground the window stood several very large fuchsias in pots; their branches hung thickly with pendent blossoms like little dancers, some in pink frocks with white petticoats, others in white frocks with pink petticoats, while others, again, had frocks with purple petticoats.
 
All the plants belonged to Ellen, the cook, who had a perfect passion for flowers and growing plants. One of the greatest offences the children could commit was to break or injure any of her treasures in any way.
 
Ellen was leaning out of the window now, admiring her beloved plants, smoothing over the earth with her fingers, and tidying away any dead leaves, and all the time she was doing it she talked to the plants just as though they could hear her and understand. She picked a leaf of the scenty geranium and offered it to Priscilla, who took it gratefully, for she loved the , and Ellen was not often so generous.
 
It was too hot in the yard to remain there long, and too dull, so Priscilla presently wandered away to the beyond. The orchard was on the slope of the hill at the back of the house, and was full of very old apple-trees. Each of the children had a favourite tree, and a favourite seat in it. Priscilla clambered up to hers, and sat there for a few moments, at her geranium leaf and looking about her rather ; it was so stupid and uninteresting to be there alone, yet nothing else seemed worth doing by herself, and what had become of Geoffrey she did not know.
 
“I don’t wonder Miss Potts is sorry she has no brothers or sisters; it must be dreadful to be always without any. I wonder how little ‘only’ girls and boys play? They can’t ever have such nice games as we have.”
 
She sat up amongst the branches, gazing down through the shady trees, pondering over this matter and sniffing at her leaf; and all her life after, the scent of those geraniums brought back to her mind the sunny day, Loveday’s tooth-pulling, Miss Potts, the old orchard, and the serious mood she was in there.
 
Presently the sound of horses’ on rough cobble-stones reached her. “That must be Betsy being harnessed,” she murmured, beginning at once to climb down; “I wonder if father is going out?”
 
Priscilla’s love of horses was, then and always, one of the passions of her life, and of all horses Betsy was the queen. She hurried through the orchard now to speak to Betsy, and to see what was happening. In the yard she found Hocking, their man, wheeling the carriage out of the coach-house, and Betsy , partly harnessed, looking on. At the sound of Priscilla’s step she looked around, and Priscilla, running to her, embraced one of her legs and kissed her soft warm shoulder.
 
“You dear!” she said, laying her cheek against the old horse, patting her with little loving pats, and Betsy lowered her head and looked at her little mistress in a motherly way.
 
While Priscilla stood there her father came out to place a medicine-case in the carriage.
 
“Hullo, little woman,” he said. “What are you doing? Nothing! That’s a dull way of passing your time. Would you like to come with me?”
 
“Oh!” cried Priscilla, unclasping Betsy and clasping her own small hands in , “may I?”
 
“Yes, if you like. I am going to Lantig, but I shall be back by tea-time. Hurry in, then, and get ready, and don’t spend an age over your toilet.”
 
Priscilla laughed delightedly, and flew up to her room. As she passed in and up the stairs, she heard Loveday’s little voice calling to her:
 
“Prissy, Prissy, do come here! Oh, I do want some one to watch me paint! Just look what I’ve done!”
 
“Can’t stay,” shouted back Priscilla. “I am going to Lantig with father, and he told me to hurry.”
 
“Well, somebody ought to stay with me when I’m an—an invalid,” declared Loveday, in an tone.
 
“Where is mother?”
 
“Out.”
 
“Oh, well, she’ll be in soon. Go out to the kitchen and show your pictures to Ellen;” and on she ran.
 
The children had not a real nurse now; Dr. and Mrs. Carlyon were not wealthy people, and when the children were no longer babies Mrs. Carlyon had felt that she must, if possible, manage with only two maid-servants. But Nurse was so fond of her “babies,” as she called them, that she asked to stay on as nurse-housemaid, in the place of , the housemaid, who was just leaving to be married, and she did so, to the delight and comfort of every one.
 
Priscilla did not call Nurse now to help her to get ready; she was learning to do a great many things for herself, and her toilet was a very simple one. She passed a brush vigorously over her curls, replaced her sun-hat, her hands into the jug—it was too heavy for her to lift—rubbed the dirt off on the towel, slipped on a clean holland coat, which she found in the drawer, and ran down again.
 
Loveday was standing at the dining-room door, with a paint-brush in one hand and a cake of paint in the other; her face was with paints of different colours.
 
“I want to go for a drive too. Shall I?” she asked eagerly, when she saw Priscilla.
 
“No,” said Priscilla, “you can’t.” Then she suddenly remembered Miss Potts, who was an “only,” and how she longed for a little sister like Loveday, and how dreadful it would be to be without her, and quite suddenly her mood changed, and all her ill-temper vanished.
 
“We will ask father,” she said; “I expect he will say ‘Yes.’”
 
But father did not say “Yes” at once; he thought it would be better for her not to go.
 
“It would be very bad for you, dear, if you got a cold in that tooth——”
 
“But I will leave it at home,” pleaded Loveday eagerly, “on the mantelpiece, and wrapped up.”
 
“I did not mean the tooth itself, you monkey; I meant the place where it came out from.”
 
“I’ll keep my mouth shut as tight as tight can be, and put my handkerchief up to hold it all the time.”
 
“I should think if she had a shawl round her face she would not take cold,” said Priscilla, with the old-fashioned motherly air she wore sometimes.
 
“Very well, let Miss come,” said Dr. Carlyon, laughing, “only Nurse had better take some of that paint off her face first, or the people in Lantig will think I am bringing a wild Indian to the village.”
 
Loveday with delight.
 
“Oh, I wish they would!” she cried, jumping about with excitement. “Then I’d scream and and frighten them so, they would all run away from me, and—and——”
 
“If you scream you will get the cold air in that sore gum of yours,” said the doctor warningly, “and then we shall have you screaming on the other side of your mouth.”
 
Loveday stood for a moment thinking very seriously, and moving her mouth from side to side.
 
“I can’t do it on only one side,” she announced, with an air of disappointment. “I scream with all my mouth at once. Daddy, tell me how to.”
 
“Oh dear, no; we don’t want to have you practising screaming all day long. Besides, I couldn’t now; why, I haven’t done such a thing since I was a boy! Now fly! If you are not ready in five minutes I shall have to start without you.”
 
Loveday vanished in a flash, shouting for “Nurse! Nurse!” all the way she ran.
 
“Quick, quick, Nurse! Do hurry!” they heard her calling . “Dress me quickly; I am going with daddy, and he won’t wait more than a minute;” and then they heard Nurse running, as most people did run when Loveday called.
 
In a very short time she appeared again, with a dainty pink shawl pinned about her neck and mouth, and in her hand a little pink parasol with white may-blossom all over it.
 
“It matches my shawl, Nurse said,” she explained gravely, “and the shawl is rather hot, so I thought I’d bring this to keep me cool. I do think it is so lovely,” she went on, gazing admiringly at the parasol—which was just a size larger than her hat—and particularly at the handle, which had a little bunch of red egglets at the top.
 
It certainly was a pretty little thing; it had been a birthday present, and when it came had filled Loveday with joy and Priscilla with that her birthday could be changed from December to May, which was Loveday’s month.
 
“Now jump up,” said Dr. Carlyon. “Hocking is waiting to fasten you in.”
 
Hocking lifted up Loveday, but Priscilla climbed up by herself, and seated herself outside Loveday, and then Hocking passed the around them, and fastened them in safely.
 
“I don’t think I need be in,” said Priscilla. “I am old enough now not to have it.”
 
“Better to be fastened in than to be falling out,” said Hocking, who never unless he was obliged to, and then never a word more than he could help. It did not matter much, for he never said anything but the most foolish things, though he always spoke with an air of the greatest wisdom. Before Priscilla could say any more Dr. Carlyon came out and got up beside the children, for he was going to drive himself, and Hocking was to be left behind. Priscilla was very glad of that. She did not dislike Hocking, but she liked best to drive without him. She found it very hard sometimes to think of things to say to him.
 
Then at last they started, and drove away up through the street, where nearly every one had a nod or a smile for them, or a touch of the hat or a word to say. The sun was shining brightly, and the air was so clear that when they reached the top of the hill some distance out in the country they could see for miles. In one direction, but very far away, were what looked like pure white hills; these were china-clay mines, their father told them, where the clay was being dug out to make cups and saucers and plates, and all sorts of things.
 
“I think my mug must have come from there,” said Loveday gravely; “it looks all white like that. Yes, I’m sure it’s the same; it has got ‘A Present for a Good Child’ on it. Don’t you think it did, daddy?”
 
“It is quite likely,” said Dr. Carlyon; and Loveday was greatly pleased.
 
“It’s nice to see where things come from,” she said, with a gravely satisfied air.
 
In another direction they could see the sea; at least their father told them it was the sea, but to the children it looked more like the sky.
 
“That is the English Channel,” said Dr. Carlyon.
 
“I think it is heaven—I mean the sky,” said Priscilla. “Father, don’t you think that is where the earth and the sky join? They must meet somewhere, mustn’t they? Do you think if I were to walk on and on and on—oh, ever so far—I should walk right through into the sky, and not know that I’d done it until I found myself with nothing but clouds about me? I should be lost then, shouldn’t I? And I could never get back again, could I? Oh, wouldn’t it be dreadful to turn round and find nothing but clouds all around, and over one’s head, and under one’s feet, and nothing to tell one the way! Just think of it, Loveday; wouldn’t it be ?”
 
“I’ve been thinking,” said Loveday impatiently, “and I don’t want to think any more.”
 
“Father,” went on Priscilla, “would it be like a sea-fog, only worse?”
 
Dr. Carlyon and shook his head despairingly.
 
“If I am not driven crazy first with trying to answer your questions,” he said, “I will take you one day soon to that very place, and then you will see for yourself that it is sea, and not sky.”
 
“But supposing it isn’t all sea, but some of it is sky, and we didn’t know it, and all got lost!” Priscilla looked up at her father with big, eyes. “I shall hold on to you all the time, father.”
 
“Very well. I’ll promise you we won’t walk through the clouds by mistake, and if they do catch us and wrap us round, we will all be wrapped round together.”