Aunt Mattie seemed rather absent-minded during the drive back—quite different from what she had been on their way to Moor Edge, which was the name of the boys' home. Then she had talked brightly and cheerfully, pointing out the places they passed—here a wood famed for the earliest primroses, there a cottage burnt down so long ago that no one could remember how it happened, though the dreary, blackened remains still stood, and amusing Rosamond as well with stories of 'the boys' and all their doings.

But the little girl was not sorry that now it was different. She was feeling tired and very puzzled. In one way the afternoon's visit had brought her a good deal of disappointment—her new friends were not at all what she had pictured them—at least—and then her mind went on to what it was that had disappointed and almost shocked her. She was too sensible a little woman to mind their being noisy and even rather rough. But—'it wasn't a nice kind of noisiness,' she thought, 'they all seemed against each other, as if they were going to begin quarrelling every minute, even though they didn't quite. I'm very glad I live with Uncle Ted and Aunt Mattie. I'd rather have no one to play with than be always afraid of quarrelling.'

Suddenly Mrs. Caryll glanced at her little companion, and it struck her that Rosamond's face was pale and that she was very silent.

'My dear,' she said, 'I don't mind the boys calling you Miss Mouse—it is a nice, funny little name—but I don't want you to grow quite into a mouse. I have not heard the faintest, tiniest squeak from you since we left Moor Edge.'

Rosamond smiled a little, but it was not a very bright smile.

'I— I thought you were thinking, auntie,' she said, 'and p'raps you were tired.'

'Just a scrap tired, I daresay,' said Aunt Mattie, 'and—yes I was thinking, but I shouldn't have forgotten you, my pet. Are you not tired?'

'I don't know, auntie,' the little girl replied. 'My head feels rather buzzy, I think. It gets like that sometimes when I've been in the railway and coming to see places and—and— I never played with such a lot of boys before, you see, auntie. I'm not becustomed to them yet,' and she could not keep back a tiny sigh.

It was repeated, though not to be heard, in Aunt Mattie's heart.

'I am dreadfully afraid I have made a great mistake,' thought the young lady to herself, 'in believing she could get on with them and be happy there. She is too delicate and fragile for them. I must arrange something different and not attempt her going there for lessons.'

But just as she was saying this to herself with a good deal of disappointment, Rosamond called out eagerly, with quite a different tone in her voice.

'Auntie, auntie,' she said, 'is that the signpost with "Whitcrow" on one of the spokes? Justin told me to look out for it. They pass by here when they go to their lessons on rainy days. I mean they turn off here instead of going on to your house. Yes'—as her aunt drew in the pony and passed the signpost at a walk, to let the little girl have a good look at it, and at the road beyond—'yes, that's it, "To W, h, i, t,— Whitcrow," quite plain. I wonder if Whitcrow once was White Crow, auntie? Do you think so? I'd like to see the house they go to school at—at least to lessons to. Can we drive that way some day?'

She was in a little flutter of interest and excitement. Mrs. Caryll looked at her with a smile.

'What funny creatures children are,' she thought to herself. 'A moment ago Rosamond was quite melancholy and depressed, as if the boys had really overwhelmed her, and now she is as bright as anything about them again.'

'Certainly, dear,' she said, her own spirits rising, 'I can show you Mr. Pierce's vicarage any day. What were you asking about Whitcrow? I don't think it ever struck me before that it may have come from White Crow. But a white crow, Rosamond, that would be a funny thing!'

'Yes,' said the little girl, laughing, 'when we always say "as black as a crow." But— I think I have heard of a white crow—or was it perhaps in a fairy story? I can't think.'

'We must ask Uncle Ted,' said her aunt. 'He knows all about curious things like that—all about wild birds and country things. But why do you say when they go to their lessons on rainy days? They go every day.'

'Oh yes, of course,' Rosamond replied. 'But it's only on rainy days they go by the road,' and she explained to her aunt the different plans that Justin had explained to her.

'That is new since my time,' said Mrs. Caryll. 'They used to drive to Whitcrow every morning and walk back if it was fine—and on rainy days the pony-cart was put up at the rectory. On fine days the stable boy went with them and brought it back. I used very often to go to meet them in the afternoons across the moor.'

'Oh then,' said Rosamond eagerly, 'you know the cottage where Bob Crag lives and the queer old woman. I do so want to see her. Will you take me there some day?'

Her aunt hesitated.

'What have they been telling you about Bob and his grandmother?' she asked.

'Oh, only just about how queer they are, and that people aren't very kind to them, because they don't know where they come from and things like that, and I was wondering— I couldn't help wondering'—the little girl went on in a somewhat awe-struck tone of voice—'if perhaps the old woman is a sort of a witch. I've never seen a witch, but I've read about them in fairy stories.'

'And is that why you so much want to go to see old Mrs. Crag,' said her aunt, half laughing.

'I don't quite know,' said Rosamond. 'Yes, I think it is partly. It's a little frightening to think of, but frightening things are rather nice too sometimes—in a sort of fancying way, I mean. For there aren't really any witches now, are there, auntie?'

She was not quite sure of this all the same, for as she spoke, she crept a little closer to Mrs. Caryll. It was beginning to get dusk, and the part of the road along which they were then passing ran through a wood; at all times it was rather gloomy just here.

'Real witches,' repeated her aunt; 'of course not, though I daresay Pat could tell you stories by the dozen about them, and no doubt Bob's grandmother is a curious old body. Long ago I daresay she would have been called a witch. I don't think she is quite right in her head, and Bob is a wild, gipsy-like creature. I don't think their father and mother care for the boys to see much of him, though both he and his grandmother are devoted to them. Some day——' but before Mrs. Caryll had time to say more, the sound of some one whistling in a peculiar way, two or three notes almost like a bird call, made her stop short.

'Why, that must be your uncle,' she exclaimed, 'coming to meet us,' and she whipped up the pony to make him go faster.

They were not far from home by this time, and when Uncle Ted, for he it was, got into the pony-cart beside them, there was no more talk between Aunt Mattie and her little niece.

'How are they all getting on at Moor Edge?' was the first thing he asked.

'Oh—all right—at least well enough,' Mrs. Caryll replied, 'though I'm not sorry that their father and mother are coming back to-morrow,' and by something in her tone Uncle Ted understood that she was not quite happy about her five nephews, but that she did not want to say any more at present.

So he went on talking about other things—he had been away all day—which did not interest Rosamond, and the little girl fell back into her own thoughts, companions she was well accustomed to.

Aunt Mattie's house was quite a contrast to Moor Edge. It stood in the midst of a small but pretty park. Everything about it was peaceful and sheltered and charming. The flower gardens were the pride of the neighbourhood. There was a great variety of rare shrubs and plants, which could not have stood the keen blasts that blew over Moor Edge, perched up as it was on high ground. The trees grew luxuriantly at Caryll Place, and there was a little lake famed for the great variety of water-birds who found their home on its borders. This lake, I believe, was the one thing which made the Hervey boys envious. For everything else they much preferred their own home, which they described as 'ever so much jollier,' with the moor close at hand, and the fresh breezes that blew across it at almost all times of the year.

But in Rosamond's eyes, though she had felt the charm of the moorland also, her aunt's home seemed perfection. All about it was in such perfect order, and Rosamond dearly loved order. The Moor Edge schoolroom had been a real trial to her, and as she ran upstairs to her own dainty little bedroom, she gave a great sigh of content.

'I am glad,' she thought to herself, 'to live here, instead of with all those boys. Though I like them very much. At least I would like them if they were just a little quieter, and not quite so squabbly. I wonder if I had had brothers if they'd have been like that? Perhaps I'm a little spoilt with being an only child, and I'm afraid I don't want to have brothers or sisters. All I do want is my own mamma, and that's just what I can't have. O mamma, mamma, if only you hadn't had to go away and leave me;' and the tears began to creep up again, as they had got sadly into the way of doing during the last few weeks, into her pretty grey eyes.

But she bravely brushed them away again, for she knew that nothing would have distressed her dear mother more than for her to give way to unhappiness about a trouble which could not be helped. And after all she had a great deal to be glad about. Many children, as her mother had often told her, whose parents were in India, had no home in England but school, or perhaps with relations who cared little about them, and took small trouble to make their lives happy. How different from Caryll, and dear Uncle Ted and Aunt Mattie, and as she reached this point in her thoughts she heard her aunt's voice calling her, as she passed along the passage on her way downstairs.

Rosamond ran after her and slipped her hand through Mrs. Caryll's arm.

'You don't feel cold after our drive, do you, darling?' said Aunt Mattie.

'No, not the least, thank you, auntie,' the little girl replied, and something in her voice told Mrs. Caryll that Rosamond had cheered up again.

'Uncle Ted says he would like a cup of tea after his journey,' her aunt went on, 'and I have a letter I want to send this evening, so you must pour it out for him while I write.'

Rosamond was only too pleased to do so; they found her uncle waiting in the drawing-room, where some tea had just been brought in. It was a pretty sight, so at least thought Uncle Ted, to watch the little girl's neat and careful ways, as she handled the tea-things with her tiny fingers, looking as important as if it were a very serious affair indeed.

'I suppose you've often made tea for your father and mother; you seem quite at home about it,' said her uncle, as she brought him his cup.

'Yes,' Rosamond replied, 'I used to have breakfast alone with papa sometimes when mamma was tired and didn't get up early. What pretty cups these are, Uncle Ted! I do love pretty things, and you and Aunt Mattie have so many.'

These cups are very old,' said Mr. Caryll, 'they belonged to our—your father's and my great grandmother—your great, great grandmother that would be, so they are rather precious.'

Rosamond looked at the cups with still greater admiration.

'I'll be very careful of them,' she said; then, after a pause—'the cups at Moor Edge were so thick. I never saw such thick cups.'

There came a little laugh from Aunt Mattie in her corner at the writing-table.

'Things need to be pretty strong at Moor Edge,' she said.

'Yes,' said Uncle Ted, 'the young men there do a good deal of knocking about, I fancy. How did you get on with them, my little Rose? You are not accustomed to racketty boys. I hope they didn't startle you?'

Rosamond's quiet little face grew rather pink.

'N—no,' she said slowly, 'I like them very much, Uncle Ted—and— I don't mind them being noisy, but'—here she broke off—'they didn't think me noisy,' she went on with a twinkle of fun in her eyes. 'They made a new name for me; they call me "Miss Mouse."'

'A very good name too,' said her uncle. 'I didn't think they had so much imagination, except perhaps Pat, who's got rather too much; he seems always in a dream. Was it he who thought of the name?'

'Oh no,' Rosamond replied, 'it was the littlest one, Ger they call him. He's a dear, fat little boy. I don't think——' and again she hesitated.

'Don't be afraid of speaking out about them,' said Uncle Ted. 'I saw you had something more in your little head when you stopped short before.'

Rosamond grew redder.

'I don't want to seem unkind,' she said, 'but are boys always like that, Uncle Ted? I don't mean noisy, but so fighting. The big ones teach it to the little ones. I was going to say that I'm sure Ger would be very good-tempered if they didn't tease him so. They all seemed to be teasing each other the whole time.'

'It's boy nature, I'm afraid, to some extent,' said Uncle Ted, 'especially where there are only boys together. It's a pity they haven't a sister or two to soften them down a bit.'

Miss Mouse's eyes grew bright.

'I don't mind their not having a sister,' she said, 'if they'd let me be like one. Do you think they would, uncle? They were all very nice to me, though they squabbled with each other.'

'They're not bad boys,' said Uncle Ted, 'in many ways. And boys must fight among themselves more or less, though I think our English ideas about this go rather too far. I can't stand anything like bullying, and there's a little of it about Justin.'

'I think I like Archie best of the big ones,' said Rosamond. 'But I'm not frightened of any of them, though I was a little at first.'

Uncle Ted looked pleased at this.

'That's right, my little girl,' he said kindly. 'It never does any good to be frightened. And you may be of a great deal of use to Aunt Mattie's nephews while you're here. I can never forget how much I owed to a dear little girl cousin of ours when I was a small boy with a lot of brothers like the Herveys—a very rough set we were too.'

'How nice,' said Rosamond, looking very interested. 'Do I know her, Uncle Ted?'

He shook his head.

'I don't think so,' he replied. 'She's never been in our part of the world since she married. But, oddly enough, you rather remind me of her sometimes, Miss Mouse.'

And when Miss Mouse went to bed that night, her thoughts about Moor Edge and the five boys there were all very bright and pleasant. It would be so nice if she could be 'of use to them all,' like that cousin of Uncle Ted's long ago.