Peggy was in nowise daunted.
The journey had been a delightful one. Mrs. Jones and Mrs. Creak had both stolen a short respite from their busy life to come to the station and see her off. She had received a parting present from both of them. Mrs. Jones had presented her with a fancy workbox, gay with painted flowers, and Mrs. Creak a stout serviceable umbrella.
Peggy thought there never was such a happy girl as herself; not a shadow dimmed the future. And she looked up into the porter's face now with such a beaming smile, that an answering one appeared on his.
"Well, where's that?"
"Ivy Cottage—Miss Churchhill's."
"Oh, those be the two fresh ladies come down last Monday. You wait a bit, and I'll get my barrow and go with you. 'Tis only half a mile—a little more."
So a quarter of an hour later Peggy stood before her new home. Perhaps it did not quite come up to what her fancy depicted. It was a small red-brick house standing back from the road, with a front garden edged with trees and shrubs. Straw and newspaper littered the front path, the windows were curtainless and blindless, and the front door stood open, showing furniture blocking the way.
Peggy walked up the path with smiling assurance; then she paused, for down on the floor, at the foot of a flight of steep narrow stairs, sat Miss Churchhill, with dishevelled hair, and a handkerchief up to her face.
When she saw Peggy she sprang to her feet.
"Why, Peggy, we have completely forgotten you! Come in. Is this your box? How much is it? Sixpence. Thank you, porter; put it down here. We are all in confusion. Good afternoon. Now, Peggy, you must help us, for we hardly know what to do first, and I am in the agonies of toothache."