While they were talking they heard footsteps on the garden path outside the window, and then came a tap at the door. Jack and Molly started. But Miss Marigold rose leisurely saying, with a shake of her head, “I told him not to stay as late as this.” Then she opened the door. “Ah! come in, Timothy,” she said.
Timothy came in. Catching sight of strangers in the room, he paused, hesitating on the mat, nervously twisting his cap in his hands. Timothy was a fat, awkward-looking boy, about twelve years old, with puffy cheeks, and round eyes, and a simple expression. Miss Marigold introduced him as her nephew, much to the children’s surprise, as he was utterly unlike his aunt in every way—in looks especially, except for the hair, which was the same pale yellow colour.
“Timothy has been out to a tea-party to-day,” said Miss Marigold to the children. “Haven’t you, Timothy?”
“Umth,” lisped Timothy, in a thick voice, nodding his head.
“I hope you enjoyed yourself,” said Molly, politely.
“Perapths,” replied Timothy, sitting down on the extreme edge of a chair.
Molly looked puzzled, but he seemed well-meaning, and she felt sorry for him as he appeared to be so nervous.
“What kept you so late?” asked his aunt. “You ought to have been home an hour ago—you know I don’t like you being out after dusk.”
Timothy blushed and began a jerky, stammering sort of explanation. His aunt frowned a little and looked at him suspiciously.
“You haven’t been on the Goblin’s Heath, have you?” Miss Marigold asked.