"It was me that sawed the air-garden wurst," said Racey. He spoke with great self-satisfaction. There he sat as comfortable as could be—he seemed to think he had got to an end of all his troubles and to have no intention of moving from where he was.
The young lady glanced at him with her kind eyes, and then turned again to me. She was evidently rather puzzled, but very patient, so it was not difficult to tell her everything. Indeed I couldn't have helped telling her everything. She had a way of making you feel she was strong and you might trust her and that she could put things right, even though she was so soft and kind and like a pretty wavy sort of tree—not a bit hard and rough.
Her face looked a little grave as well as puzzled while I was speaking. I don't think she liked what I said about not wanting them to know. Her face and eyes looked as if she had never hidden anything in her life.
"And what was the letter, Audrey? And whom was it to?"
"It was to Pierson—that's our old nurse," I said. I hesitated a little and Miss Goldy-hair noticed it.
"And what was it about?" she said, very kindly still, but yet in a way that I couldn't help answering.
"It was to tell her how unhappy we were," I said in a low voice, "and to tell her that I was going to try to go to her with the boys—to take them away from Uncle Geoff's, because Mrs. Partridge is so horrid and she makes Uncle Geoff think we're always being naughty. And mother said I was to make the boys happy while she's so far away, and I can't. And I can't make them good either—we're getting into quarrelling ways already. I'm sure we'd be better with Pierson in the country."
"Where does Pierson live?" asked the young lady.
"At a village called Cray—it's near Copple—Copple— I forget the name, but I've got it written down. You won't tell Uncle Geoff?" I added anxiously.
"No," said Miss Goldy-hair, "not without your leave. But that reminds me—won't your uncle be frightened about you all this time?"