"Kate—I can't sing any more—I'm just tired out with happiness."
"Cuddle up against me, darling, and try and go to sleep then."
"Then, dear Kate," said Frances, earnestly, "will you promise to tell me all about the next stations, and the green fields, and the sheep, and the cows, and the people hay-making, and the dear little white houses. And I will dream about the sea. Oh, I am so glad that you and I are going to the sea."
So the little head with its mass of golden brown hair found a resting-place on Kate's shoulder, and silence reigned for a time. And Kate, her arm round the sleeping child, watched those green fields flooded with summer sunlight with thoughts so new and strange that often the tears would come into her eyes. She could not quite understand this new life yet, but somehow, since the day when the fast-closed door was unlocked, and the Friend admitted, she had found all her old restlessness and her hard thoughts of life vanish, and deep peace and love had come in their place.
"Is it a station?" said a little dreamy voice at length, and the brown head moved uneasily. "Please tell me when there's something to be seen besides 'Colman's Mustard.'"
"There is something!" cried Kate, breathlessly, "there is, Oh, Frances, such a beautiful face!"
Little Frances was on her feet in a moment, and rushed to the farther window. Before the train had quite stopped, her head was such a long way out that an old German from the next window shouted to her, "If you do not take care, Miss, some fine morning you vill get up vidout your head."
"I see her," said Frances, turning round to Kate, "all in grey, with a very, very large bunch of roses in her hands. Now she is talking to three big brothers. Now the big brothers are carrying all her things; books, and a bag, and a basket, and a cloak, and a parasol, and a funny stick with wires in it."
"Lawn-tennis racket," suggested Kate, who knew country ways.
"There is a funny old woman with a hook nose walking with them, and now the big brothers are laughing and talking to her."