had been busy. Generally, however much she and Sylvia might wish it,
they had found acquaintance with other children absolutely impossible
in the presence of grown-up people, whose eyes and voices seemed to
strike all parties dumb. But these children seemed in no wise
constrained: one of them said at once, "We are so glad you are come.
Mamma said she thought you would before we went out, one of those
days."

"Isn't it horrid going out in London?" asked Kate, at once set at
ease.

"It is not so nice as it is at home," said one of the girls;
laughing; "except when it is our turn to go out with Mamma."

"She takes us all out in turn," explained another, "from Fanny, down
to little Cecil the baby--and that is our great time for talking to
her, when one has her all alone."

"And does she never take you out in the country?"

"Oh yes! but there are people staying with us then, or else she goes
out with Papa. It is not a regular drive every day, as it is here."

Kate would not have had a drive with Aunt Barbara every day, for more
than she could well say. However, she was discreet enough not to say
so, and asked what they did on other days.

"Oh, we walk with Miss Oswald in the park, and she tells us stories,
or we make them. We don't tell stories in the country, unless we
have to walk straight along the drives, that, as Papa says, we may