"I do believe we have come to a town, or something," said Penelope excitedly. "There isn't a church or a big clock in Dorsham, only a chapel. Let's go on and see."
But Esther checked her enthusiasm. "We had better not stay away too long, or Cousin Charlotte may be frightened, and we want to stop at Mrs. Vercoe's before we go home. Let's go there now, shall we?"
The suggestion was seconded with alacrity. But if they thought that their little manoeuvrings were going to blind Mrs. Bennett, or spare her feelings, they made a mistake. They had yet to learn that no single thing happened in Dorsham 'street,' no single person went up it or down, without the fact being known sooner or later—generally on the instant—to every dweller therein; and for four strangers, newly come to live in the place, to expect to escape notice was absurd.
The only result of their plan was to attract more attention to themselves; but of this they were happily unconscious, and once inside the little, low, dim, crowded place, their joy seemed unbounded. If Mrs. Bennett had repelled them, plump, jolly-looking Mrs. Vercoe, with her round rosy face and kindly, smiling eyes, attracted them at once.
"Well, my dears," she said warmly, "and what can I do for you to-day?"
There was a delicious smell of hot cake pervading the place, and Mrs. Vercoe herself had come out streaked with flour, and carrying a big black 'sheath' full of new currant cakes and buns.
"I—I hardly know," said Esther. "There are such lots of nice things here," she added politely. "Do you mind if we look about for a few minutes first?"
"Look about to your heart's content, my dear," she said genially. "Well, little missie," to Poppy, "'tis nice to see so many young ladies about Dorsham; 'tis what we ain't over-blessed with. I'm afraid you'll find it dull without any little companions; 'tis very quiet here, not that I'm complaining," she added hastily, afraid of seeming disloyal to her native place. "And what do 'ee think of our village?" she asked, seeing Penelope's eyes fixed interestedly on her. "Fine and lonely I reckon it looks to strangers, but 'tis airy," with a little laugh, "and bootiful air too. Makes 'ee hungry, I expect, missie, don't it? Could 'ee eat a new bun now?"
Penelope was about to decline, thinking it would be correct to do so, but her finer natural instinct told her that it might be politer to accept, and in response to Mrs. Vercoe's bidding she helped herself. The old dame delightedly invited them all to do the same. Angela and Poppy accepted; Esther held back with shy reluctance.
"Oh no, thank you," she said. "We are so many."