"Something like picnicking, darling. People who live in the country, or who are rich,"—here Mrs. Home sighed—"often, in the bright summer weather, take their dinner or their tea, and they go out into the woods or the green fields and eat there. I have been to gypsy teas; they are great fun. We lit a fire and boiled the kettle over it, and made the tea; it was just the same tea as we had at home, but somehow it tasted much better out-of-doors."
"Was that some time ago, mother?" asked little Daisy.
"It would seem a long, long time to you, darling; but it was not so many years ago."
"Mother," asked Harold, "why aren't we rich, or why don't we live in the country?"
A dark cloud, caused by some deeper emotion than the mere fact of being poor, passed over the mother's face.
"We cannot live in the country," she said, "because your father has a curacy in this part of London. Your father is a brave man, and he must not desert his post."
"Then why aren't we rich?" persisted the boy.
"Because—because—I cannot answer you that, Harold; and now I must run downstairs again. Father is coming in earlier than usual to-night, and you and Daisy may come down for a little bit after tea—that is, if you promise to be very good children now, and not to quarrel. See, baby has dropped asleep; who will sit by him and keep him from waking until Anne comes back?"
"I, mother," said Harold, and, "I, mother," said Daisy.
"That is best," said the gentle-voiced mother; "you both shall keep him very quiet and safe; Harold shall sit on this side of his little cot and Daisy at the other."