But, alas! the snow was gone, the birds were regaling themselves on a breakfast of worms, and the rain was pouring thickly and quietly, with an easy intention of going on for ever, as only Irish rain can pour.
Now what was to be done? No good works were possible. Nurse Nancy could think of nothing more diverting than story-books, and so Terry and Turly sat each on a stool beside the fire with a book, while Nancy went as usual to attend to her mistress.
Nurse had said nothing about practising, and, good as she wanted to be, Terry had not courage to return of her own accord to the melancholy piano in the deserted drawing-room. If Turly were to come there with her again he would either go to war, or hunt wild beasts, or do some other disturbing thing to disagree with the order of the furniture, and she herself, Terry, would be sure to be in the middle of the worst of it. So she resolutely held to her book, that Nancy might not be so likely to remember the practising.
When the children were left alone, however, they soon began to talk.
"I say, Terry," said Turly, "isn't the house awfully quiet? You wouldn't think there was any kitchen or places downstairs, because they make no noise. At school you are always hearing things, doors banging and voices speaking, and you can smell the dinner. It's a very quiet place, Gran'ma's is. There's no smell, and there's no sound."
"It's very far downstairs here, you know," said Terry sagaciously. "It's a big house. And we do smell our own dinner when it comes up. Now, don't we, Turly?"
"Oh, yes!" said Turly, yawning; "but I like to know all that is happening to everybody. I say, Terry, do you know there's another story of house above the part we're living in?"
"Two stories," said Terry.
"Have you never been up in them?" said Turly.
"No," said Terry. "I peeped up the stairs once or twice, but it looked rather lonely, so I didn't care to."