But I began to talk of other things to put it out of her head. And before long—at least it didn't seem long, railway journeys do so depend on how you're feeling—we pulled up at a pretty little station, and we saw that the name of it was Fewforest.
We got out, feeling rather important, and perhaps mums was a tiny bit nervous. You see she's very seldom had to do things like looking for houses, by herself. She's always nearly had father or gran. She was rather proud of it, too, and so was I. I was determined she shouldn't feel lonely or bothered if I could help it.
And everything went wonderfully right. It is like that sometimes.
To begin with, I never saw a jollier railway station. It seems in the middle of a wood, and the station-master's house is like a Swiss cottage. I've never been in Switzerland— I've never been out of England—but mother has, lots, and of course I've seen pictures. And everybody says Fewforest is quite as pretty as heaps of places people travel miles and miles over the sea to visit.
There was a little kind of a phaeton standing outside, and a rather fat boy with red cheeks on the box.
He touched his cap as we came out, and, getting still redder, he mumbled something about 'Measter Parsley,' and 'Mossmoor.'
'Yes,' said mother, 'we are going to Mossmoor Farm. Are you to drive us?'
He touched his cap again, and tried to explain that his master was very sorry he couldn't come himself; something or other unexpected, we couldn't make out what, having happened to prevent him.
I wasn't sorry. If the farmer had come, we'd have had to talk to him, for civility's sake, and it would have been a great bore, when we wanted to talk to each other and to look about us. We certainly didn't need to talk to the fat boy. He looked most thankful when we were settled in our places behind, and he didn't have to see us at all, though his ears kept red all the way to Mossmoor, I could see, just from shyness. I got to know him quite well afterwards, and his ears weren't generally redder than other people's. He was a nice boy; his name was Simon Wanderer; it didn't suit him, for he'd never been farther away from his home at Mossmoor than six miles. I don't believe he has yet, though he must be seventeen by now.
It was a lovely drive. I have been it lots of times since of course, and I always like it; but that first time there was something extra about it. It was all new to us, and then we did so enjoy being in the country again, and there was a nice feeling as if we were having an adventure too.