thinking of Fred and Carrie; but he need not. Of course Carrie would
work as heartily as any of us; idling was never her forte; and Fred
--well, perhaps Fred was not always industrious.

I seemed to have lost myself in a perfect tangle of doubt and dread.
Uncle Geoffrey went on with his talk, half sad and half moralizing,
but I could not follow all he said. Two thoughts were buzzing about
me like hornets. Father was ill, very ill, and we should have to
leave Combe Manor. The sting of these thoughts was dreadful.

I seemed to rouse out of a nightmare when Uncle Geoffrey suddenly
announced that we were at Crowbridge. No one was waiting for us at
the station, which somewhat surprised me; but Combe Manor was not a
quarter of a mile off, so the luggage was wheeled away on a truck,
and Uncle Geoffrey and I walked after it, up the sandy lane, and
round by the hazel copse. And there were the fields, where Dapple,
the gray mare, was feeding; and there were Cherry and Spot, and
Brindle, and all the rest of the dear creatures, rubbing their horned
heads against the hedge as usual; and two or three of them standing
knee-deep in the great shallow pool, where Fred and Allan used to
sail their boats, and make believe it was the Atlantic. We always
called the little bit of sedgy ground under the willow America, and
used to send freights of paper and cardboard across the mimic ocean,
which did not always arrive safely.

How lovely and peaceful it all looked on this June evening! The sun
shone on the red brick house and old-fashioned casements; roses were
climbing everywhere, on the walls, round the porch, over the very
gateway. Fred was leaning against the gate, in his brown velveteen
coat and slouched hat, looking so handsome and picturesque, poor