and I called our nursery, however, we always welcomed it with blinds
rolled up to the very top; and, as we had no carpet, no damage was
done.

But sunshine outside will not always make sunshine shine within, and
I remember one day when, though our nursery was unusually cheerful,
and though the windows were reflected in square patches of sunlight on
the floor, I stood in the very midst of the brightness, grumbling and
kicking at my sister's chair with a face as black as a thunder-cloud.
The reason of my ill-temper was this: Ever since I could remember, my
father had been accustomed, once a year, to take us all into the
country for change of air. Once he had taken us to the sea, but
generally we went to an old farmhouse in the middle of the beautiful
moors which lay not many miles from our dirty black town. But this
year, on this very sunshiny morning, he had announced at breakfast
that he could not let us go to what we called our moor-home. He had
even added insult to injury by expressing his thankfulness that we
were all in good health, so that the change was not a matter of
necessity. I was too indignant to speak, and rushed upstairs into the
nursery, where my little sister had also taken refuge. She was always
very gentle and obedient (provokingly so, I thought), and now she sat
rocking her doll on her knee in silent sorrow, whilst I stood kicking
her chair and grumbling in a tone which it was well the doll could not
hear, or rocking would have been of little use. I took pleasure in
trying to make her as angry as myself. I reminded her how lovely the
purple moors were looking at that moment, how sweet heather smelt,
and how good bilberries tasted. I said I thought it was "very hard."
It wasn't as if we were always paying visits, as many children did, to
their country relations; we had only one treat in the year, and father
wanted to take that away. Not a soul in the town, I said, would be as