At this news Sally was so happy that she could scarcely speak a word.
She left her chair at breakfast three times to hug Father close, and, if she could, she would have hurried Mother off to the train an hour before it started.
Once on the train there was so much to be seen from the window that Sally had little time to talk.
Green meadows, fields of corn, a brook with cows knee-deep in the shade. Over a bridge, through a dark tunnel, with every now and then a glimpse of the sparkling sea.
On and on thundered the train. Sometimes it would stop at a small village station to let an old woman with a basket climb on or off. Sometimes it roared its way into a smoky town, the streets lined with brick buildings and filled with people moving to and fro.
Then came the marshes, covered with pale green grasses and rushes, with pools of water that gleamed white in the sun.
Last of all, the city, the great bustling city, with its dashing automobiles and heavy trucks, its crowds of people, its haste and confusion and noise.
Sally held fast to Mother’s hand. If she let go, even for a moment, Mother might be swallowed up in the crowd, and then how would Sally ever find her way home again?
‘Do you think all these people have little boys and girls like me at home?’ asked Sally, as she and Mother made their way through the crowd toward the big shops where you might buy almost anything in the world.
‘A great many of them have,’ answered Mother, ‘and some of them have brought their little boys and girls with them to town.’