Six Cousins at Mistletoe Farm E-Book

Enid Blyton

• Herausgeber: WS
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 275

Beschreibung

After a fire at their home, Cyril, Melisande and Roderick are hastily sent to stay with their aunt, uncle and cousins on their farm. The three arrivals are somewhat spoiled and affected, and find it very tough to live on a working farm with their cousins Jane, Jack and Susan who have their own faults. Sensible Aunt Linnie helps the cousins to fit in a little and even the home cousins learn a thing or two.

Leseprobe

SIX COUSINS AT

MISTLETOE FARM

Enid Blyton

First published in the U.K. in 1948 by

Evans Brothers Limited, London.

Text of this edition from the 1967 Armada edition.

CHAPTER ONEThe Telephone Call

It was half-past five one April evening at Mistletoe Farm. In the big sitting-room sat five people, finishing high tea.

Three children sat at the table with their father and mother. There were the twins of fifteen years old, Jane and Jack. There was eleven-year-old Susan, with Crackers the black spaniel sitting as close to her as he could. Susan passed him everything she didn’t want to eat, and he gulped it down.

Mr. Longfield, their father, was a big, burly farmer. He sat at the head of the table, eating quickly, and frowning as he thought of all the work to be done in the next week. Springtime was always so busy—never a minute to spare for anything.

Mrs. Longfield sat at the other end of the table. She was plump and short, with soft curling hair, and eyes that twinkled. They didn’t always twinkle, though. They could look hard and cold and stern when she didn’t approve of something.

She was half-smiling now as she looked at her family sitting round the table, eating the things she had cooked. She looked at the twins—nobody would ever think they were twins! Jack had curly hair, Jane had straight hair Jack was tall, Jane was short. Jane was quick, talkative and impatient, and Jack was slow and silent—but what a temper he had!

Mrs. Longfield looked at Susan, who was stolidly eating an enormous slice of cold pudding. Susan stared back at her mother solemnly, then smiled the sudden smile that made her plain face quite pretty.

“Well, Solemn Sue,” said her mother. “You haven’t said a word all through the meal.”

“I hadn’t anything to say,” said Susan. “I was thinking.”

“And feeding Crackers!” said Jane. “You shouldn’t, Susan. He’s getting so fat. I hate a fat spaniel.”

“Oh! How could you possibly hate Crackers?” said Susan in a horrified voice. “Our own dog that we’ve had since he was so small he couldn’t even bark!”

“Of course Jane would never hate Crackers,” said Mrs. Longfield. “But I agree with her that fat dogs are dreadful. Crackers really is too fat now.”

“I’ve said before that the dogs are not to be fed at table,” said Mr. Longfield suddenly, entering into the conversation unexpectedly. “Do you hear, Susan?”

“Yes, Daddy,” said Susan, alarmed. Her father so rarely said anything at mealtimes that it was quite a shock to hear his deep voice. He had the same sudden hot temper that Jack had—and the same kind heart and the same love for every animal and bird on the farm and in the countryside.

Silence fell on the table again. Crackers gave one of his heavy sighs, and Susan put down her hand to comfort him, feeling certain that he had understood what her father had said. He licked her fingers.

Mrs. Longfield poured Susan another cup of milk. She liked this time of the day best of all, when she had the whole of her family there together in peace. Life at Mistletoe Farm was good—plenty of work to be done, and plenty of happiness in the doing of it. She ran the farmhouse in her own way, just as her husband ran the farm the way he liked. Nobody interfered, nothing upset the happy routine of the year.

Then the telephone bell rang out in the hall. It made everyone jump. Crackers leapt to his feet and barked madly. He never could learn that the bell was nothing to worry about.

Nobody moved. Mrs. Longfield looked at her husband. “Telephone,” he said, with a frown. “Isn’t anyone going to answer it? One of you children go.”

The three children hated answering the telephone. Jack gave Jane a nudge. “Your turn to,” he said. “Go on, Jane, before it rings again.”

It rang again, shrill and loud, sounding very impatient.

“Who can it be?” said Mrs. Longfield. “Do go and answer it, Jane.”

Jane got up and went into the hall. The others listened as she took off the receiver.

“Hallo! This is Mistletoe Farm.”

Somebody spoke sharply and quickly the other end. Jane listened, her eyes opening wide. “What did you say? Who is it speaking? Oh—Uncle David!”

The voice in the telephone spoke again, urgently, and Jane listened, her eyes almost popping out of her head.

“Who is it? Uncle David? Whatever does he want?” said Mrs. Longfield.

“Oh Uncle—how dreadful! Oh, I’m so sorry! All burnt down—oh, Uncle!” she heard Jane’s voice from the hall.

“I’ll fetch Daddy.”

Jane put down the receiver and came running back from the hall, almost bumping into her mother and father, who were both on the way to the telephone.

“Mummy! Daddy! It’s Uncle David. Their house has been burnt down—and Auntie Rose is in hospital—and . . .”

But her father had snatched up the receiver and was listening intently to his brother’s voice. He motioned impatiently to Jane to stop talking. By now Jack and Susan and Crackers were all in the hall, and their mother was trying to gather what was being said over the telephone.

“David, I’m horrified—I’m terribly sorry for you,” said Mr. Longfield “Poor Rose—she wasn’t burnt, was she? Oh—just badly shocked. What about the children—are they all right?”

The talk went on and on. Then Mr. Longfield turned to his wife. “You speak to David,” he said. “He wants to know if he can bring the children over to stay with us till he can arrange for somewhere else to live—and till Rose is better. He’s at his wit’s end, poor boy.”

Jane glanced at Jack and made a face. Susan screwed up her nose, as she always did when she didn’t like the idea of something. But they didn’t say a word to one another.

At last their mother put down the telephone receiver. She led the way back into the sitting-room. Nobody felt like having any more to eat.

“Well, what a shock!” said Mrs. Longfield, sinking down into her rocking-chair. “Oh Peter—poor things—all their lovely house gone—hardly anything saved.”

“Mummy, what’s happened? Tell me!” demanded Susan. “Has Three Towers been burnt down?”

“Yes—your uncle’s beautiful house is nothing but a shell now,” said her mother. “Nobody seems to know how it happened—but the flames got such a hold almost at once that there was no saving it. All their lovely furniture—and all Rose’s clothes—those fur coats too! The children’s clothes were saved, but not much else.”

“And, of course, Rose would be taken off to hospital with shock,” said Mr. Longfield. “She always retires to bed when anything happens to her family.”

“Oh, don’t be unkind,” said his wife. “It would be a terrible shock to me if Mistletoe Farm was burnt down.”

“Oh, I dare say,” said Mr. Longfield, “but I can’t see you retiring to bed and leaving me to cope with everything, Linnie—and leaving the children, poor things.”

“Well, never mind about that,” said Mrs. Longfield. “We’ve got to help. The children are staying at neighbours’ houses to-night, and David will bring them to-morrow.”

“Mummy,” said Jane, “how long will they stay?”

“Oh, till they go back to their schools, I expect,” said her mother. “About a week or two.”

“Oh,” said Jane, looking relieved. “I’m awfully sorry for them all—but I don’t think I could bear to put up with Melisande and the others for very long.”

Jane, Jack and Susan went out of the room into the garden. It was a warm and sunny April evening, with primroses lining the garden path, and a blackbird singing in a clear, cool voice from an apple-tree.

They all went to the apple-tree. It was very old and had a curious low branch, broad and flat, that made a fine seat. Their father had sat there as a boy, and so had their grandfather. Now all the children squeezed on it together, and looked gloomily at one another.

The blackbird stopped singing and flew into a pear-tree. He began his fluting song again. Crackers tried to get on to Susan’s knee and was pushed off. He sat against her legs, listening to the talk that went on above his head.

“Gosh! Fancy having your house burnt down like that! It’s pretty awful,” said Jane.

“Yes—and it’s pretty awful having Melisande, Cyril and Roderick here,” said Jack. “Awful snobs—turning up their noses at everything—calling us country clods behind our backs, and sniggering because our riding breeches are dirty.”

“Frightful names they have too,” said Jane. “Melisande! What a name!”

“Oh—is it Melisande?” said Susan, sounding astonished. “I always thought it was Smellisande—and I thought it was such a good name for her, because she always does smell of powder and soap and things.”

Jane and Jack chuckled. “You’re always making mistakes like that,” said Jane. “That’s pretty good—Smellisande! Don’t you go calling her that now! You never did before, or I’d have noticed it.”

“Susan never opened her mouth when they came here last year,” said Jack. “Anyway, Melisande is a better name than Cyril—though I really must say Cyril’s name suits him.”

They sat and pictured Cyril. He was almost sixteen, a tall, white-faced boy, with wavy hair that he wore too long, and an affected, slow way of talking that exasperated Jane and Jack unbearably. He was very fond of poetry and music, and had quite made up his mind to be a writer of some kind.

“Roderick’s the best of the three,” said Jane. “Though he’s a frightful little coward, and an awful ninny. Darling mother’s boy! Why is Aunt Rose so silly?”

Nobody could answer that question. Aunt Rose was beautiful. She dressed beautifully, she smelt lovely; she was a year older than Mrs. Longfield, but looked ten years younger—and oh, how silly she was!

She fussed, she pouted, she squealed, she simpered—and she spoke to all the children, her own as well, as if they were about five years old. No wonder Melisande, Cyril and Roderick were peculiar with such an odd mother!

“Well—they’ll all be here to-morrow—and we shall have to put up with them. After all, it must have been a frightful shock when their house went up in flames,” said Jane. “We’ll have to be as nice as we can.”

“It would be easy if they were nice to us,” said Susan. “But they never are. Are they, Crackers?”

“I suppose I’ll have to give up my room to Melisande and sleep with you, Susan,” said Jane mournfully. “I hate sleeping with you. You kick about so at night.”

“Gosh! And I’ll have to share my room with Cyril, I suppose,” said Jack. “There’s hardly enough room in it for me. I have to keep my things as tidy as I can or I’d never have room to do anything—and I bet Cyril’s as messy as a girl.”

“Thank you!” said Jane indignantly. “You take that back!”

“Well—your bedroom’s always in an awful mess,” said Jack. “Go on, be honest, Jane. You’re frightfully untidy, you know you are. I can’t think what Melisande would do if she had to share your room!”

“Where will Roderick sleep?” said Susan. “In the boxroom, I suppose! That’s the only room left!”

The farmhouse was old and rambling. Its ceiling slanted in odd ways. The passages were uneven, and odd little steps up and down made it dangerous for a stranger to go along without a light. There was only one bathroom, and that had cold water, but not hot. The hot water had to be carried up the back-stairs each night when anyone wanted a bath.

The children were used to cold baths. They all hated carrying the pails of hot water up the narrow back-stairs for hot baths. Susan grinned suddenly when she thought of her three cousins being offered a cold bath. She couldn’t imagine any of them saying “Yes.”

Mistletoe Farm looked peaceful and lovely that evening. It was built in the shape of an L, and there was an old paved courtyard in the crook of the L, with a pond full of fat goldfish. Behind was a kitchen garden and orchard. All around lay undulating fields, now green with the growing corn and other crops.

The three Longfield children loved their home. It didn’t matter that there was no hot water, that they had to use oil lamps, and that the floors were uneven. They would rather put up with all those things and live at Mistletoe Farm surrounded by their horses and dogs and cows and sheep, than live at a wonderful place like Aunt Rose’s. Three Towers seemed almost like a palace to them.

“And yet Three Towers isn’t a home, really,” said Susan, thinking her thoughts out loud, in the way she sometimes did. “It’s just a beautiful house. I mean it was. I forgot it was burnt down, for a minute. Jack, wouldn’t you hate to live in a big town always, like our cousins? No field for miles—and not even their own horses to ride!”

“Well, they had three cars,” said Jack. “They wouldn’t need horses. Horses are just things to ride at a riding school to Melisande and the others. They just wouldn’t understand how we think about our own ponies. I mean—unless you saddle and bridle and groom your own horse, it isn’t a real horse!”

Jane and Susan knew quite well what this peculiar statement meant. All three Longfield children had their own ponies. Jane had Merrylegs; Jack had Darkie; and Susan had a strange little barrel of a pony called Boodi. He was an Iceland pony, sturdy, full of character, and not at all good-tempered. But Susan loved him passionately.

Somebody came out of the farmhouse and beckoned and called. “That’s Mummy,” said Jane, getting up. “She wants me to feed the hens, I expect. She’ll be busy getting ready for the others to-morrow. Susan, come and give me a hand with the corn.”

They left the apple-tree, and the blackbird flew back to it. It was the particular tree he liked to sing from in the evening-time. Crackers watched him flutter into the boughs, and then followed the children sedately, his long silky ears swinging as he went. He was their faithful black shadow.

CHAPTER TWOGetting Ready for the Visitors

The next morning everyone was very busy getting ready for the arrival of the three cousins. Jane heard to her horror that she was not to go into Susan’s room; she was to share her own room with Melisande.

“But, Mummy! You know how I’d hate that,” objected Jane at once. “I couldn’t bear to have Melisande sharing a room with me.”

“Well, you hate sleeping in Susan’s double-bed with her, because she kicks about so,” said her mother. “I thought it would be the lesser of two evils if you share with Melisande. And, anyway, it does mean we don’t have to move all your things. I do wish you’d be more tidy, Jane. Your bedroom is an absolute disgrace.”

“I’ll take all my things out, and put them into Susan’s room,” said Jane. “It won’t be any bother, Mummy.”

“No. I’ve settled the matter now,” said her mother firmly. “You’ll share your room with Melisande—and maybe you’ll be ashamed to be so messy and untidy when you’ve got her in the same room.”

“But, Mummy,” began poor Jane again, but her mother simply didn’t seem to hear. She swept about from this room to that, efficient, quick and commanding. Jane was to share with Melisande. Jack was to share with Cyril. Roderick was to have the little boxroom, and Jack and Jane were to go up there at once and clear it of its boxes and trunks.

“Why can’t I have the little boxroom, and let Cyril and Roderick share my room together?” said Jack, annoyed.

“Because we haven’t got time to remove everything from your room, or from Jane’s either,” said his mother, exasperated. “Good gracious me! Anyone would think they were coming to live with us, not stay with us, the fuss you’re making! Can’t you be a little bit helpful when I’m in such a rush?”

Jane and Jack went up to clear the little boxroom. Jane was furious and talked nineteen to the dozen. Jack was also furious, but didn’t say a word. Soon they had the room clear of the boxes and trunks, which they put in the cistern room—and their father brought up a camp-bed for Roderick to sleep on.

“I wish I could sleep on that,” said Susan, longingly. “Roderick is lucky.”

“Well you’re the only lucky one of us three,” said Jane, sharply. “You’re keeping your room to yourself. Jack and I are not. Thank goodness there are two beds in my room. I simply couldn’t bear to sleep in the same bed with Melisande. She smells like a scent-bottle all the time.”

“Dear old Smellisande,” said Susan with a giggle. “I do hope I don’t suddenly forget and call her that.”

At last the three rooms were ready for the unexpected visitors. Jane had tidied her room and put everything away in drawers—not neatly, alas! but crammed in anyhow. Jack had not been able to make much more room in his bedroom, because he was already very tidy, but he had moved out the cupboard in which he kept most of his treasures, and that did make a bit more space for Cyril’s belongings.

Susan had nothing to do to her own bedroom, so she helped her mother to arrange Roderick’s little room. They talked together as they made the camp-bed, and put out towels and soap and tooth-mug.

“I hope you and the others will be very nice to your cousins,” said Susan’s mother. “I know they are not a bit like any of you—they have been brought up so very differently—but they have had a dreadful shock and they will need kindness.”

“Yes, Mummy,” said Susan. “But how long have we got to go on being as kind as all that?”

“Oh, Susan! Is it such an effort?” said her mother. “You make me ashamed of you. Now go downstairs and ask Dorcas if she wants you to go and fetch anything from the shops. It’s my shopping morning, but I’m too busy to go.”

Susan sped downstairs to Dorcas, who was in the kitchen, making a big sponge pudding. She was a fat, elderly woman with a bright red face, untidy hair, tidy knob of a nose, and a pursed-up mouth. She wore an enormous white apron, and moved about surprisingly briskly for such a big woman. She was humming one of her favourite hymns when Susan came flying into the kitchen.

“Ah, here comes Susan Headlong again,” she said. “What do you want? To scrape out the pudding basin, I suppose.”

“Well, Dorkie, I wouldn’t mind,” said Susan. “But really I’ve come to see if you want any shopping done. Mummy’s too busy.”

“Yes, that she is,” said Dorcas, stirring the pudding mixture hard. “With three more to do for, she’s going to be busier than ever. Yes, and you mark my words. Miss Susan—them cousins of yours will be here for good!”

“Whatever do you mean?” said Susan, alarmed.

“I mean what I say,” said Dorcas. “Your Auntie Rose is in hospital, and your uncle’s got no house for the children, and not likely to get one either, these days—and your Ma will be landed with them for good.”

“Oh no!” said Susan. “You’re just silly, Dorcas! You know we couldn’t have them here for long. There isn’t room. Besides, Mummy would have too much to do. And Auntie Rose will soon be out of hospital and Uncle will find a house, and they’ll all be together again.”

“Well, you’ll see,” said Dorcas, darkly. “Take your finger out of my basin, now, Miss Susan, or I’ll rap it with my wooden spoon. And if you want to be useful, get down the old shopping-bag, find my shopping list on the dresser, and go and get the things I want.”

“I’ll go on Boodi,” said Susan. “He likes shopping.”

“Well, you see you shut him up properly when you come back,” said Dorcas. “Last time you let him wander around, and he stuck his wicked head in my kitchen window and licked all over the bar of salt I’d left on the table nearby.”

“Yes, I know. You told me before. It made him terribly thirsty afterwards,” said Susan, getting down the shopping-bag. “He’s a darling. Don’t you really think so, Dorcas?”

“Indeed I don’t,” said Dorcas, pouring a little milk into her basin. “He’s a pest if ever there was one, that pony of yours. I don’t like that wicked look in his eye, either. Now off you go, or I’ll not get the things I want to-day!”

Susan ran off to the stables. Boodi, the Iceland pony, was there, his head over the door, waiting for her. He was brown all over, with a short thick mane and a long, thick tail. His eyes were beautiful—dark and clear, with sweeping eyelashes that curled up just like Susan’s own.

“Boodi! Have you been waiting for me to come? I’ve been busy,” said Susan as she saddled him. “Boodi, Dorkie says you’re a pest and that you’ve got a wicked look in your eye. And I do believe you have!”

Boodi certainly had. He was a queer character. Mr. Longfield often said he would never have bought him if he had been the last horse in the world. He had had to take him in payment of a bad debt, and had brought him home one night.

Susan had met him riding Boodi, and stood still in delight. At that time she had no pony of her own, and she quite thought her father had been to buy one for her—and she thought it might be Boodi!

“Daddy! Is he mine? Have you bought me a pony at last?” she cried, and she had been bitterly disappointed when she knew that Boodi was not for her.

“He’s vicious,” said her father. “Do you know what he does? He suddenly goes into the hedge and squeezes himself alongside to squash your leg and make you get off! He tried it once with me, but he won’t again!”

Boodi looked at Susan under his long eyelashes and she looked back at him. He blinked. Susan rubbed his soft nose.

“You winked at me,” she said softly. “I saw you! Daddy, I’m going to pretend that he’s mine.”

And so she had pretended, though for some time her father would not let her attempt to ride the Iceland pony. “He’s too fat for your short little legs,” he said. “And I don’t trust him.”

“But I do,” said Susan, earnestly. “He’s queer in lots of ways, Daddy, but he’s all right with me. Really he is. I’ve found out that he won’t go if you say, ‘Gee-up.’ You have to say ‘Woa!’ And he won’t stop unless you whistle to him. As soon as I whistle he pulls up at once.”

“I expect, being brought up in Iceland, the ways there are different from here,” said her father. “He’s an odd fellow.”

“He thinks for himself,” said Susan. And it was quite true. Boodi did think for himself. He had an intense curiosity, and if he saw anything that puzzled him he had to go up and look at it closely. He had an incurable habit of licking things too, and an even worse one of nibbling the tail of any horse that happened to be standing in front of him.

He soon became known as Susan’s pony, and when he had been there a year he followed Susan about rather like Crackers did. Mr. Longfield still would not let Susan ride him, much to the little girl’s grief, because he felt convinced that Boodi was not trustworthy, and he had visions of Susan being flung from his back, her foot still caught in a stirrup, and being dragged home at Boodi’s heels.

“Well, let me try him without stirrups then,” begged Susan one day. “I can’t come to any harm then. I’ve taken tosses from Merrylegs and Darkie and come to no harm. If I ride Boodi without stirrups I can’t possibly have a real accident.”

And so she had first been allowed to ride Boodi without stirrups, and had gone gaily along the lanes, slipping and sliding about on his back. Never once had Boodi tried to get her off by his trick of squeezing her leg close against a hedge.

Now she was allowed to ride him properly, with stirrups, and he was as good as gold with her, but neither of the twins was keen on getting on his back. They couldn’t imagine why Susan was so fond of Boodi, when there were lovely ponies like Merrylegs and Darkie to rave over.

Susan rode off on Boodi, cantering down the lane that led from Mistletoe Farm to the little village in the valley below. Boodi was in a happy mood, and tossed his head up and down as he went. Susan sang in her high clear voice, and forgot all about the coming of the three cousins.

She did the shopping and mounted Boodi again, turning his head homewards. She suddenly remembered that Melisande, Cyril and Roderick were arriving that day, and her heart sank. They would turn their noses up at everything, including Boodi. They would expect to be waited on. Melisande would probably weep all the time, and keep telling them about the fire.

“I must be kind. I really must,” said Susan to herself. “It’s awful for them. And I don’t expect they want to come and stay with us any more than we want them to! I expect they’re miserable too. I shall be kind. I shall offer to carry up hot water for . . .”

A car came up the narrow lane behind Boodi. Susan got as close to the left side as she could. The car hooted loudly, and Boodi reared in fright, almost throwing Susan off.

“What did you do that for?” shouted Susan in anger. “You idiots! Quiet, Boodi! Get down. It’s all right, Boodi. I tell you.”

The car swept by, and Susan glared at the people inside. “Beasts!” she yelled, quite beside herself with fury at their stupidity.

And then she saw that it was her cousins! Her Uncle David was driving the car, and Melisande was sitting beside him. It must have been she who had hooted to attract Susan’s attention. Cyril and Roderick were sitting behind.

Susan could not smile. The four driving by saw an angry little red face, and then the car swept on up the lane and disappeared round a corner.

Boodi was still rather unmanageable. He hated sudden noises, and had once run for miles when a traction engine had met him unexpectedly, hissing out steam. Susan slid off his back and went to his nose to calm him down.

“Aren’t they stupid, Boodi?” she said. “Just the kind of thing they would do! How can I smile and say nice things to people like that? And just look at all my shopping! I must have dropped the bag when you reared up like that. Now stand whilst I pick everything up.”

She began to whistle softly. Boodi liked that. Whistling always soothed him. He stood almost still whilst Susan picked up the things that had fallen out of the bag. She couldn’t find the tin of golden syrup anywhere.

“Blow! It must have rolled right down the hill,” she said. “Come and look, Boodi.”

It had rolled down the lane and into the ditch round the corner. Susan fished it out, wiped it and put it back into the bag. Then, still feeling exasperated, she mounted Boodi again. “Woa!” she cried. “Woa!” and Boodi, contrary as ever, set off up the hill just as if she had clicked to him to gee up!

“So they’ve arrived,” thought Susan as they jogged along. “Oh, I do hope Dorkie isn’t right. I do hope they haven’t really come for good!”

CHAPTER THREEThe Cousins Arrive

Jack and Jane saw the car coming as they looked out from the sitting-room window. It swept into the drive and stopped. Jack yelled to his mother:

“They’re here! Quick, Mummy!”

Mrs. Longfield hurried down, the two children following her to the door. Uncle David was getting out, looking tired and grave and old, though he was younger than his brother, the farmer. Melisande got out, helped by Cyril, who was always very gallant and well-mannered.

“You poor things!” said Mrs. Longfield in her warm, kind voice. Melisande fell into her arms and burst into tears. Cyril looked as if he was about to weep too. Roderick stared stolidly in front of him, a pretty, girlish boy, too plump, and with a rather stupid look on his pale face.

Jane and Jack felt and looked most uncomfortable. They wished Melisande would stop crying. They didn’t know what to say to their uncle. They were even afraid of shaking hands with Cyril in case he too began to cry. So they looked at Roderick.

“Hallo, Roderick,” said Jack, and then felt that his voice was much too cheerful. He lowered it a little. “Er—hand me out those cases. I’ll take them in.”

Cyril began to help. Melisande was being taken indoors by Mrs. Longfield, who was trying to comfort her. Jane noticed that Melisande was dressed in a pale blue tailor-made suit, very pretty and smart. “It makes her look almost grown-up,” she thought, “and yet she’s hardly fifteen. And her hair is a mass of waves—just as if she’s spent hours over it this morning. And she’s even found time to put on a brooch. I bet if my house had burnt down yesterday, I wouldn’t have cared how I was dressed!”

Cyril too looked as if he had taken a lot of trouble with his clothes—much too much, Jack thought. And yet he looked sloppy, though probably he meant to look artistic. His tie was a floppy bow. His shirt was a peculiar colour. He wore sandals!

“Sandals!” thought Jack. “Gosh! Well, I suppose his shoes were lost in the fire. I’ll have to lend him a pair of mine—but my feet are twice his size.”

They all went indoors with the luggage. Jane wondered where Susan was. “Just like Susan to get out of welcoming them!” she thought, not knowing that Susan had gone out shopping, and was even then riding up the lane homewards.

Melisande had been taken upstairs to Jane’s room. Mrs. Longfield was trying to persuade her to go to bed.

“It must have been a terrible time for you,” she said gently. “And I don’t expect you slept much last night. I’ll help you undress, dear, and then you stay in bed to-day. You’ll feel better to-morrow.”

“It was dreadful,” wept Melisande. “I shall never forget it, never. No, don’t make me go to bed, please. I shan’t rest or sleep for ages.”

“How is your mother?” asked Mrs. Longfield, and immediately regretted asking the question, because it brought a fresh flood of tears at once.

“Poor Mummy! She had to be taken to hospital. She simply collapsed,” wept Melisande.

Mrs. Longfield sighed. She patted her niece and told her to wash, and dry her eyes, and come down to lunch if she really wouldn’t stay in bed.

“I couldn’t eat a thing,” said Melisande.

“Well, you shall do just what you like, dear,” said Mrs. Longfield. “I must go and see to Cyril and Roderick now. I’ll see you later. Shall I send Jane up to help you unpack?”

“Yes, please,” said Melisande. She began to cry afresh. “Not that there’s much left to unpack. We only saved a few of our clothes.”

Mrs. Longfield thought of the many cases and bags in the car. Half of them would be enough to pack the clothes of all five Longfields in! She gave Melisande another pat and went out of the room.

Cyril was unpacking in Jack’s room, and there was literally not enough room to stand up in. Jack sat on the window-sill, looking miserable. Whatever would his room be like when Cyril had finished?

Mrs. Longfield looked at Cyril. Well, thank goodness he wasn’t crying! He looked grave and rather important.

“Managing all right, Cyril?” she asked. “Aren’t you helping him, Jack?”

Jack got up unwillingly and tried to find a place to stand and help, but he couldn’t without treading on Cyril’s belongings.

“There are plenty of empty drawers, Cyril,” said Mrs. Longfield. “Put what you’ve unpacked into the drawers, and then you’ll be able to find room to unpack the rest.”

“Well, it’s only books that are left, and my papers,” said Cyril. “I simply don’t know where I’m going to put my books.”

“There’s plenty of room downstairs in the bookcase,” said Jack.

“Oh, I must have them up here,” said Cyril in his rather affected voice.

“I don’t see why,” said Jack, ready to argue. His mother frowned at him, and he stopped.

“Put them all at the bottom of the big cupboard for now,” she said to Cyril. “Then we’ll see what we can find for you to put them in later on.”

Roderick was upstairs with Susan, who had now arrived. She was still feeling rather sulky about the stupid hooting that had made Boodi rear, but she was really trying hard to be nice.

She had peeped into Melisande’s room, and retreated hurriedly when she saw Melisande dabbing her eyes and sniffing dolefully. She had then peeped into Cyril’s room, and looked in horror at the masses of clothes on the floor and on the two beds. She saw Jack sitting scowling on the window-sill, and decided to go away. She climbed up to the little boxroom and found Roderick there, looking very glum.

“Am I to sleep here?” he said to Susan, before she had even had time to say, “Hallo.”

“Yes. On this camp-bed. Aren’t you lucky to have a camp-bed to sleep on?” said Susan. “I’ve only got an enormous old double-bed.”

Roderick didn’t look as if he felt it was at all lucky to sleep on a camp-bed. He looked round the little room as if he thought it was a dreadful little hole.

“I don’t think much of this,” he said. Susan forgot all her good resolutions at once.

“What’s the matter with it?” she demanded.

“Well—it’s so small—and dark,” said Roderick. “And I’ve already heard peculiar noises up here.”

“Oh—that’s only the cistern,” said Susan. “It gurgles. Once I slept up here for a week, and I liked it when the cistern gurgled. It sounded sort of friendly.”

There was a pause. Susan heard a pattering of feet up the uncarpeted attic stairs, and in came Crackers the spaniel. He ran straight at Roderick and sniffed his legs. Roderick pushed him away.

“That’s Crackers,” said Susan. “We called him Crackers when he was tiny because he did such mad things. He really was crackers. I say—tell me about the fire. Did it burn everything in great hot flames?”

To Susan’s alarm, Roderick put his hands in front of his eyes and cried out loudly: “Don’t! Don’t ask me about it! I shall scream if you do.”

“But, Roderick—I only wanted to know,” said Susan. “Was it—was it so dreadful? Did you see the house burn?”

Roderick screamed. Crackers growled, and Susan jumped in surprise. Her mother came running up the stairs.