"You're a rude boy," she said. Then after a pause, she gave a little nod at him, and added, "Mother says you've just the air of a little Hodge the ploughboy. So there!"

But this arrow did not hit the mark, though Philippa had aimed it as straight as she could. Dennis did not mind being called a ploughboy a bit. He had seen lots of them, and considered theirs an agreeable and interesting occupation; so he only shrugged his shoulders, and left her to recover her temper as she could.

It never answered to be cross at Fieldside, and Philippa had found this out before. There was nothing gained by it. Maisie only looked surprised and sorry, Dennis took no notice at all, and Aunt Katharine was much too busy to spend any time in settling disputes. This being the case, it was surprising to see how soon Philippa got over her pa.s.sionate fits, and was ready to behave as though nothing had happened.

It was so now, for though she was rather sulky with Dennis all the evening, she got up in quite a good temper the next morning, and did not seem to remember that he had been rude. The three children started off for a walk together soon after breakfast, for Aunt Katharine wanted a message taken to the Manor Farm. On the way, Dennis and Maisie had much to tell about Mr and Mrs Solace, their house, and all their animals; and Philippa listened with interest, though she thought it all rather "odd."

This word was indeed constantly on her lips, for her cousins seemed to live in such a very different way from anything she was used to at home.

When they pa.s.sed through the village, nodding and smiling to nearly every one they met, and making little friendly remarks to the people at their cottage doors, she could not help thinking of her stiff walk in the park with Miss Mervyn, which always lasted a certain time if it was fine, and from which she often came back feeling very cross. If the walk at Fieldside were "odd," it was certainly amusing, and she began to wish there were a village at Haughton.

Presently the village ended, and now there was a long narrow lane to go through before the Manor Farm was reached.

"What a nice stick you've got," said Philippa to Dennis.

"It _is_ a jolly stick, isn't it?" he said, holding it out for her to see more closely.

It had all manner of quaint knots on the stem, and the large k.n.o.b at the top was carved into a very excellent likeness of the little rough dog Peter. Philippa looked at it with admiration.

"I should like one like that," she said. "Where could I buy one?"

"You couldn't buy one at all," said Dennis proudly; "it was made for me.

Tuvvy made it."

"Who's Tuvvy?" inquired Philippa.

"A friend of mine," said Dennis; "he's Mr Solace's wheelwright."

"Oh yes, I remember," said Philippa; "Maisie told me about him. What odd friends you have!"

She looked curiously at Dennis as he marched along flourishing his stick. It must be rather nice, she began to think, to do things for people, and for them to be so grateful, and carve sticks on purpose for you.

Still, it was "odd," and there was a good deal in it that she did not understand.

Arrived at the farm, however, her thoughts were soon distracted; first by the appearance of the turkey-c.o.c.k, and the agreeable discovery that she was not afraid of him.

"What a baby you are, Maisie!" she exclaimed.

"She isn't always," said Dennis; "there are lots of things worse than the turkey-c.o.c.k that she doesn't mind a bit. Things _you'd_ be afraid of, perhaps.--There is Mrs Solace at the door."

Mrs Solace beamed at the children in her usual kindly way; and, as was her custom, would not think of their leaving the house without eating something after their walk. At home Philippa would have despised bread and honey and new milk, but here somehow it tasted very good, and she was too hungry to stop to call it odd.

"The little lady wants some of your roses, Miss Maisie," said Mrs Solace, looking at the children as they sat side by side; "she's as white as a sloe-blossom."

"My complexion's naturally delicate, thank you," said Philippa, rather offended; "I never get sunburnt like Maisie."

"Oh, well, maybe you've outgrown your strength a bit, my dear," said the farmer's wife, smiling comfortably.--"And now, Master Dennis, I mustn't forget that Andrew's got a couple of young jackdaws for you: would you like to take them back now, or let 'em bide here a little?"

There was some consultation between Dennis and his sister, before it was finally settled that the jackdaws should not be taken then and there to Fieldside, but should first have a home prepared for them.

"And I know just where to build it," he said, as the three children started on their return after saying good-bye to Mrs Solace. "Just in that corner, you know, between the fowl-house and the cow-shed."

"Do you know how to build it?" asked Philippa.

"Well, perhaps not just quite exactly," said Dennis with candour; "but Tuvvy will tell me and help with the difficult parts. He pa.s.ses through our field every night, you know."

"And shall you work at it just like a carpenter?" asked Philippa with surprise.

"As like as I can," said Dennis modestly; "you see, I do know a little carpentering because I've watched Tuvvy so much."

"You're a _very_ odd boy," said Philippa. Every day that she pa.s.sed at Fieldside she became more and more certain that her cousins did strange things, and liked strange things; but, at the same time, there was something pleasant about the life they led, and she did not feel cross nearly as often as she did at home. She even began to share their interest in the affairs of the village.

"I wish there were people at Haughton I could go and see like this," she said one day.

"But there isn't any village at Haughton," said Dennis. "There's only the Upwell Road outside the gates."

"There are lots of poor people in Upwell, though," said Philippa.

"That's quite different," said Dennis; "Upwell's a town. I don't suppose Aunt Katharine would let Maisie and me go about alone there as we do here."

For the rest of Philippa's visit she and Maisie were left a good deal to each other's society, for Dennis was now entirely occupied with the building of the jackdaws' house under Tuvvy's advice and direction. One afternoon the two little girls were sitting together in the play-room, threading beads on horsehair to make a collar for Darkie.

"What made Dennis want to help Tuvvy?" asked Philippa suddenly. "Was it after he had carved that stick for him?"

"Why, no; of course not," said Maisie. "Tuvvy did that because he was so much obliged to Dennis."

"Well, then," repeated Philippa, "why _did_ Dennis take all that trouble for him?"

"He liked him," said Maisie; "and when you like people, you want to please them, I suppose."

"I don't think I do," said Philippa slowly; "I want them to please me."

"But that isn't fair," said Maisie. "You ought to please them if they please you; even Darkie knows that. Aunt Katharine says," she added, "that you ought to try to help people and be kind to them, whether they're kind to you or not."

Philippa shrugged her shoulders and seemed to have had enough of that subject, but although she was silent she thought it over in her mind.

Maisie, meanwhile, was occupied with a very usual matter--the grey kitten's fate. She was never tired of wondering where it was, who had found it, or whether it was alive at all, and as she had no news of it, the subject was likely to last a long time.

"We shall never be able to see now which of the three is the greatest comfort," she said aloud, "because I don't suppose we shall ever see the grey kitten again."

"Darkie's the best," said Philippa; "he's so clever, and so handsome too."

"Don't you like Blanche?" asked Maisie, dropping her work and looking earnestly at her cousin.

"Sometimes," said Philippa airily, "but she isn't a comfort. Miss Mervyn says she's a plague, and mother would send her away directly if she wasn't mine. If she was as nice and well-behaved as Darkie, we should all love her."

"But," said Maisie, "Darkie is naughty by nature. He really is. We've had a great deal of trouble to make him obedient and good. He was a much worse little kitten than Blanche ever was."

"Well," said Philippa, "I'm quite sure no one could have had more advantages than Blanche. She's had everything she wants, and been allowed to do just as she likes."

"Then," said Maisie solemnly, "I expect you've spoilt her, and that's why she's so troublesome and naughty."