“NOW then, let’s change places,” said Loveday impatiently, as Priscilla’s last curl was freed.  
“Oh no; you must wait until we have quite reached the top of the hill! You don’t want to make poor Betsy stand here with the carriage dragging her back all the time, do you?”
 
“I fink Betsy would like to stop and rest for a little while, and I am sure she wouldn’t mind. She is very strong, and I am not a bit heavy. I don’t suppose she feels whether I am in the carriage or not. Do you think she does?”
 
“She hears you, if she doesn’t feel you,” said Dr. Carlyon.
 
“Do you think that Priscilla and I and your medicine-case, all put together, weigh as much as you do, father?”
 
“I think that if we had waited a year or two before we chose a name for you, we should have called you ‘Chatterpie’ instead of Loveday.”
 
“Oh, I wish you had!” cried Loveday. “Wouldn’t it have been funny: Chatterpie Jane Carlyon? Now, Prissy, do make Betsy stop; we have come to the very top. It is quite flat here.”
 
“I am going to draw up near that gate,” said Priscilla firmly, “so that I can smell the charlock in that field.”
 
“That weed!” said Dr. Carlyon. “You surely don’t like that? Whoa, Betsy!” And without much Betsy came to a standstill by the gate of the field where the charlock grew.
 
“I love it,” said Priscilla, drawing in deep breaths of the charlock-scented air; “it always reminds me of—of—oh, something—drives, and nice things, and sunny days, and the day you gave me ‘Grimm’s Fairy Tales,’ father.”
 
“I will get down now,” said her father, “then you must slip up on to the box-seat, and I will get up on the other side and take Loveday on my lap.”
 
Priscilla was delighted. She did not say much, but she was in a perfect of joy at being given the box-seat, and allowed to drive on the level, and even downhill. She had never done so much before, and she thought she should never, never forget this happy day. She longed to get down and hug Betsy, and pat her as her father was doing. Instead, she looked up at the , thrilling , and in the smell of the charlock. It could not really have been the that she loved, but the associations it had, and the thoughts it brought to her; and she felt that she should love it more than ever after this day.
 
Then Dr. Carlyon got up and took Loveday on his knee, and on they went again. Presently they saw a cart coming towards them, and Priscilla’s heart beat a little faster as she realised that she would have to pass it. She did not say anything, but her cheeks grew very red, and she felt a great desire to take one in each hand; it seemed to her that she could pull Betsy in better if she did; but she did not do it; she knew it was not the right way to hold the , and she was rather proud of her skill as a driver.
 
“You know which side of the road to keep, don’t you?” asked her father. “You haven’t forgotten the verse I taught you, have you?”
 
“No,” said Priscilla. “At least, I remember most of it.
 
“‘The rules of the road are a quite.’”
 
Then she paused. “Um-um, I never can remember that second line; but it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t tell you anything. I know the others—
 
“‘If you keep to the left you are sure to be right,
If you keep to the right you are wrong.’”
Priscilla did not know what “paradox” meant, but she thought the last two lines were wonderfully clever, and she always said them to herself when she was driving. The worst of it was, she could not always decide in a moment which was her left hand and which her right. She had to think of the nursery at home, where, if she faced the window, the gas-bracket was on her left hand, and she had to picture herself there, facing the window, and then she knew. But she had not always time to think of those things, particularly when she was driving.
 
Now if the boy, who was coming nearer and nearer, had only in to one side or the other, she would have known what to do, and would have pulled in to the opposite side, but he came right along the middle of the road, and the only thing he seemed inclined to do was to drive into them, until at last poor Priscilla was struck with a sudden panic of alarm.
 
“Father,” she cried, “please, will you drive—I—I don’t know where to go!”
 
Her father, looking up and seeing what was happening, took the reins, and as he drew Betsy in to the hedge, he called out very sharply to the stupid boy:
 
“Keep to your own side, boy; do you hear? Pull to the left. Don’t take the whole road. Ah, I see it is Mr. Bennet’s horse and cart you are in charge of? Well, I shall tell Mr. Bennet that you must have a few lessons in driving before you can be trusted with a horse again. You are a danger to every one you meet. You were quite right, Prissy,” he said, giving her back the reins; “the drivers should be next each other when passing, but that boy required the whole road and the ditches too. Would you rather I drove now?”
 
“Oh no, thank you, I want to drive again.”
 
She felt ashamed of herself for having been so frightened, and made up her mind to drive past the next vehicle she met, no matter what it was. A great hay- with a load of hay on it soon in sight, and for a moment it seemed as though there was no room in the road for anything else, but Priscilla tried very hard not to be foolish. “The drivers must pass next each other,” she repeated to herself; but this driver was walking at the horse’s head, and he was on the far side of the horse. She would have to go right across the road to pass close by him. “He must be on the wrong side,” she thought. “Oh dear, what a lot of men don’t know the rules of the road.”
 
When they were safely past she drew a big deep breath of relief, but she felt very glad that she had managed by herself.
 
“Father, don’t you think all the boys should be made to learn at school that verse you taught me; then they would know better how to drive?”
 
“I do indeed,” said Dr. Carlyon; “perhaps they would remember a simple little thing like that. It isn’t much they do remember six months after they have left school.”
 
“Hocking’s son Ned can draw a pear beautifully,” said Priscilla very impressively, “but Hocking didn’t seem a bit glad. He said, ‘Better fit they took and taught ’em how to grow ’em;’ he didn’t see what time Ned was going to have for drawing pears on a bit of paper when he was ‘prenticed.’ Neither do I,” added Priscilla gravely.
 
Dr. Carlyon burst into laughter.
 
“Quite true,” he said, “quite true. I am glad Hocking has so much common sense, and I foresee that some day we shall have you sitting on School Boards, and such-like.”
 
Priscilla supposed a School Board was some sort of hard seat or form, but she did not like to ask, though she wondered very much why her father should laugh so about it.
 
“I think, though, Prissy, you had better not talk as Hocking does. It is not quite the way that little girls should speak.”
 
Priscilla sighed.
 
“I wish I was a boy,” she said earnestly. “I don’t want to sit on School Boards and things, but I want to talk like Hocking, and to be a miller’s man, and drive a waggon with four horses, and shout ‘Gee wug.’ Or else I’d like to be a Coachman or a bus-driver. I would rather be a miller’s man, though, ’cause I like the little short whip the best; it is so much easier to crack.”
 
“I am sorry,” said her father, smiling at her. “I suppose that driving poor old Betsy only, and with a long-handled whip, which is never required, is very poor fun to you, you ambitious young person!”
 
“Oh no; I love Betsy, and I love driving her, but, of course, I can’t drive Betsy always; I am going to earn my own living when I grow up.”
 
“Would you have bells on the horse’s harness if you were a miller’s man?” asked Loveday.
 
“Oh yes—a whole lot of dear little ones, and I’d keep them always shining like new.”
 
“Well, here we are at Lantig School-house,” said Dr. Carlyon. “Draw up here, Prissy. Would you two like to come inside, or wait in the carriage?”
 
“Is it ?” asked Priscilla.
 
“Yes, it is vaccinations. I think there will be about a dozen or more babies to-day.”
 
“Then I’ll come. Come along, Loveday, in, and see all the dear little babies.”
 
Priscilla down, and Dr. Carlyon lifted out Loveday.
 
“You look very warm in that shawl,” he said. “I think you might take it off while you are inside.”
 
Loveday, though, preferred to keep it.
 
“I’ll unpin it,” she said, “but I think I will wear it, ’cause it goes with my parasol, and I am going to take in my parasol for the babies to see. I think they will think it very pretty, don’t you, Priscilla?”
 
But Priscilla was already inside the building, gazing with fascinated eyes at the rows of mothers and babies. The building, which was the school-house, and stood a little way outside the village, had been cleared of its usual occupants, and on the forms, which had been moved back in two lines along the sides, sat a lot of country women, each one holding a baby. Such jolly babies they were, most of them, great, plump, smiling, healthy, country babies. Some were too young to notice anything, and just lay asleep, or staring about them, but others sat up and looked at Priscilla and each other and their mothers, and laughed and crowed, and waggled their bald heads about. They were all specklessly, spotlessly clean and kissable in their cotton frocks and big pinafores, and the mothers looked as clean and tidy as the babies, and most of them were just as smiling. When they saw the doctor come in the mothers all stood up and curtseyed, and Dr. Carlyon had a word and a smile for each one.
 
“Iss, they’m good enough now, doctor!” said one woman, in answer to his remark on the babies’ good temper; “but I reckon you’ll soon set ’em laughing the other side of their faces, poor dears.”
 
Loveday, who had become rather shy when she found herself entering a room so full, stood and looked with interest at the woman who , and presently drew nearer to her:
 
“Does your baby scream on the other side of his face sometimes?” she asked eagerly.
 
For a moment Mrs. Rouse looked at her, not quite understanding her.
 
“Iss, that ’e do, missie,” she said at last, “and pretty often too, when he gets contrairy.”
 
“I wish you would tell me how he does it,” said Loveday anxiously; “I do want to know.”
 
But, to her surprise and , Mrs. Rouse only burst into a of laughter. Loveday could not bear to be laughed at at any time, but there, before a whole roomful of strangers, it was really dreadful, she thought. With very red cheeks she turned away and walked straight out of the school-house, and glad she was that she did, for as she left she heard Mrs. Rouse telling the others what she had said; after which they all laughed.
 
Loveday was very and angry.
 
“I wish I hadn’t gone in,” she thought; “I won’t look at their babies again, if they want me to ever so much. I think they are very ugly babies, and—and I’ll say so if they laugh at me any more.”
 
She climbed up into the carriage, and perched herself on the seat, but very soon she remembered that by-and-by the women and their babies would all come out by that same door, and she would have to face them all. When she remembered this she felt she could not possibly stay there, so she climbed down again and wondered what she should do with herself. She walked along the road a little way while she pondered, and at last, around a bend in it, she saw to her great the “giant’s arm-chair.”
 
The “giant’s arm-chair” stood high up in the hedge-bank beside the road; it was made of white , and the seat of it was as large as the floor of a small room; it had also an enormously wide, rounded back, and two large arms; down in front of it, at one corner, was a smaller block of granite, which was always known as the “giant’s footstool.”
 
Loveday had driven past the great chair very often, and longed to stop and climb up into it, but until to-day she had never had a chance. In her delight she forgot all about the women and their laughter. But, ! when she reached the chair she found that the seat was far too high for her to climb up into by herself; it would have taken a very tall man to lift her high enough to reach it.
 
“Never mind, I can sit on the footstool,” she thought; but even that proved a climb, and it was a difficult matter to get up and hold on to her parasol all the time. She did manage it, though, after a struggle, and when she sat up on it, holding her parasol open over her, she felt quite repaid for her trouble, and very pleased and proud, only she did wish Priscilla was there too.
 
“I wonder if the giant had any little children, and if they used to sit on this footstool. I expect so. Oh, I do wish Prissy would come and see me now. She can’t really want to stay and look at those babies any longer.”
 
Only a very low hedge bordered the road on the other side, and beyond that stretched a large piece of wild moorland, covered with large blocks of granite. “That was one of the giant’s play-grounds,” her father had once told her, “when Cornwall was full of giants, and very probably the great rocks about were the stones they had thrown at each other in play, or when quarrelling.”
 
“I am very glad I didn’t live then,” thought Loveday; “I wonder what happened to little girls like me. I wonder if they ate them all up! I expect they did if they caught them sitting in their armchairs,” and a little thrill of fear ran through her at the thought. It was very wild and lonely there, with not a living thing in sight, except a few big crows cawing noisily as they flew overhead, and a few goats clambering about over the moorland opposite her. If one had not known that there was the school-house and a little shop and a house round the bend of the road, one might have felt oneself miles and miles from anywhere, and anybody. Loveday felt as though she were, and it really seemed to her that at any minute a big giant might come striding along the wide white road to have a rest in his chair, and would catch her!
 
Of course, she did not really expect him, and she knew there were no giants nowadays, but she felt she would rather like to see Betsy again, and be safely in the dear old carriage, where there were rugs and things to hide under, and she at once scrambled down from the footstool and ran, not because she was nervous, of course! but because she wanted a change, and to see Betsy.
 
“O Betsy, I am so glad to see you!” she cried, as she ran up to the dear old horse and hugged her; and Betsy, who had been having “forty winks,” opened her eyes and looked down at her little mistress with what was certainly a smile, and she put down her soft nose and snuzzled her affectionately. Once more Loveday mounted the carriage, but as she did so she remembered the mothers and babies in the schoolroom. “Oh dear,” she cried impatiently, “it seems to me I can’t get any rest; if it isn’t giants it’s mothers! But I know what I’ll do: I will lie down here, and when I hear them coming I will pull the rug up over me so that they can’t see me.”
 
So she curled herself up on the lower of the two seats, with the rug all over her except her head. She was only to pull it right up when she heard any of them coming. But at one moment she thought she heard the handle of the door being turned, and then she thought she heard voices and footsteps coming out; and she had so many false alarms and grew so nervous that at last she snuggled right down under the rug and stayed there, and then she forgot to listen, and somehow, instead of being in the carriage she was in the giant’s oven, and oh, it was so hot there she felt she was being , when suddenly the oven door was opened, and such beautiful cool air rushed in, and—
 
“Why, what has the child wrapped herself up like this for?” exclaimed a voice; “she must be trying to cook herself, I think.”
 
“Perhaps she is afraid of getting a cold where her tooth came out,” said another voice, which was Prissy’s. Loveday roused herself, and sat up and stretched; she was very hot and tumbled, and and she could not remember for a moment what had happened. Then out came a woman with a crying baby in her arms. Loveday recognised Mrs. Rouse, and wanted to be under the rug again.
 
“There, missie! He’s laughing the other side of his face now,” she said, smiling good-temperedly up at Loveday, and holding out the baby for her to see.
 
“I don’t think he is at all pretty, whichever side he smiles,” said Loveday very crossly, and without a ghost of a smile on her own face. She knew she was rude and unkind, but she felt at that moment that she wanted to say something nasty, and she said it. Priscilla was shocked, and her father was with her, but Mrs. Rouse only laughed good-temperedly.
 
“It was your pa that made him to. You must ask him to learn you how to laugh the other side of your face.”
 
“I don’t want to know, thank you,” said Loveday shortly. “Prissy, will you pin up my shawl, please? If I talk any more I shall catch a cold in my mouth.”
 
Priscilla got up, and, kneeling on the seat beside her little sister, arranged the shawl very carefully about her.
 
“I wouldn’t speak like that if I were you, dear,” she said gently; “Mrs. Rouse is such a nice, kind woman, and she doesn’t understand that you don’t like her—her joking.” Loveday jerked away her head quite crossly, but Priscilla went on. “If you laugh and don’t take any notice, they won’t think anything about it; but if you look so cross and say nasty rude things, they will talk ever so much about it.”
 
Loveday saw the sense of this, and it seemed so dreadful that she forced herself to be less disagreeable, and to look at some of the other babies, and even to smile at some of the mothers, but she could not forgive Mrs. Rouse quite yet.