Mrs. Creak was wrong when she lamented Peggy's non-appreciation of the beauties of nature.
Her little soul was drinking it in very slowly, but very surely.
As she looked out of her small bedroom window every morning, she would say to herself—
"Oh, Peggy, what is it makes you feel so happy? 'Tis the wonderful lot of room you sees, and all the empty earth and sky, why all London couldn't crowd out this place, 'tis so big!"
Now as she looked at the snowdrops, she addressed herself again.
"They does keep theirselves clean, Peggy. 'Tis a pity you can't be more like 'em, they be just like white chiny. I'm glad I don't have to dust 'em ev'ry mornin'. I should be certain sure to snap their stalks off! I wish Mrs. Creak could see what flowers I have 'ere, and nothink whatsoever to pay."
Then she betook herself indoors.
The garden was pleasant, but she could not scrub or dust it, and those two arts were at present her chief joy.
The day passed too quickly for all she had to do, and at four o'clock she locked up the front door, leaving Albert Edward in the back kitchen with a plate of scraps by his side.
When she arrived at Mrs. Timson's she found that worthy woman sitting down with her husband at his tea. John Timson was the carrier to the nearest market town, six miles away. He was a meek little man with a great faculty for receiving all local gossip and quietly passing it on.