So on Wednesday morning a four-wheeler with some luggage on the top drew up at Miss Eccles' door, and Neville jumped out. Kathleen was ready, of course; she had been ready for half an hour at least. There was nothing more to do except to give Philippa a last hug for the twentieth time, and to tell her not to cry, and to be sure, quite sure, to write.
'And, Kathie, don't, promise me you won't, give up looking for the will,' whispered Philippa at the very last moment. 'Oh, how I wish I were going with you! How I would hunt!'
'I won't forget, I promise you,' Kathie replied. 'But don't fancy there's any chance of it, Phil. There isn't, I'm afraid, and you'd only be disappointed. But I'll write to you, darling, I promise you.'
The first part of the journey was performed to the children's entire satisfaction, for they had the carriage to themselves.
'After all,' said Kathie, 'third-class isn't so bad, is it, Neville? And I'm sure papa and mamma will think it awfully good of us to have saved the money.'
'I don't know that they will,' said Neville. 'They will think it sensible—as we're going to be poor it's best to get accustomed to it. But besides that, if we hadn't come third, we couldn't have come at all.'
Kathleen sat silent for a minute or two.
'Do you really think we are going to be poor always, Neville?' she said. 'Do you think there's no chance of the will ever being found?'
Neville shook his head.