"I think it would look like a patchwork quilt," said Nesta.

"Father, why do people mark their land out into such funny little bits?"

So spoke the children, used to wide tracts of land without boundaries, hundreds of acres without fence or railing--such country as England boasts of in miniature only on its wildest moors.

The twins were speechless and almost suffocated with excitement when the train at last ran into a little country station, and Mr.

Orban said briskly,--

"Here we are!"

"There they are!" exclaimed Mrs. Orban, with a little sob in her voice.

"Who? who?" yelled Peter, dashing from the other side of the carriage.

"Grannie and grandpapa," answered Mrs. Orban.

"Oh, where?" said Peter, as the train stopped. The children knew Bob Cochrane's grandfather and grandmother--a very comfortable, homely old pair of the typical "grannyish" type, rather bent, rather deaf, and always referred to as "the old people." Trixy invariably rushed at them when they came, and called them "the dear old pets."

There was no one the least "grannyish" or cosy-looking on the platform. Only a very erect, elderly gentleman with silver hair, and a lady who might have been the Queen, so dignified, so stately was she. They were the sort of people the twins had read of but never seen.

A hush fell over the children as they scrambled out of the carriage after their mother, and waited till their grandparents were ready to notice them. Then they each received a kiss and a handshake which made them instantly feel that nothing would be more impossible than to rush upon this grandfather and grandmother and call them either "dear," "old," or "pets."

All through the drive in the old-fashioned waggonette the sense of unfamiliarity grew as the children stared--the twins furtively, Peter openly--at Mr. and Mrs. Chase.

It seemed to the twins such a queer arrival, and so different to anything they had expected, that they could scarcely believe it was real. "Why," thought Nesta, "the Cochranes make much more fuss over us when we go to see them for a day." But Eustace's thoughts were too confused for description.

The conversation was funny and jerky, and just the sort of things strangers say to each other. Mrs. Chase hoped they were not very tired, and that they had had a nice journey. And Mr. Chase said it was a hotter summer than there had been for the last ten years, and so on.

"Oh dear," thought Eustace wearily, as they drove into the park, "how different it would have been if Aunt Dorothy had been here!"

But still there was the place to be interested in, and when his mother said, "This is home, Eustace," he roused himself, and looked about him.

Even a Colonial child, accustomed to vastness, could not help admiring such a place as this, full of fine old trees spreading over the short cropped turf. The park was hilly, and swept away to right and left towards thick woods.

Then, as the carriage reached a bend and came into full view of the great house, standing gray, ma.s.sive, and strong in the evening light, the children's hearts did thrill with pride. This was something better than their own slenderly-built, iron-roofed house in Queensland.

"There are Herbert and Brenda waiting for us," said Mrs. Chase, "but I don't see nurse. I have got you a charming woman as nurse for Becky and Peter. You can't be tied down to looking after the children, you know. I want you to be free to enjoy yourself."

Peter started as if he had been shot.

"Me have a nurse!" he exclaimed. "I don't want looking after."

Eustace and Nesta glanced quickly at their mother. Becky with a nurse! This was something extraordinary. And mother "not to be tied down to looking after the children." When had it ever been a tie to mother to look after them? Such a strange idea had never occurred to any of them before, and all in their own separate ways resented it.

Mr. Chase looked at Peter in surprise.

"When I was your age," he said gravely, "I had what was given me, no matter what I wanted."

"We've got to think about your mother's wants first," said Mrs.

Chase, "and she deserves a holiday after all these years."

"Quite right," said Mr. Orban; "she needs one badly. I am thankful she should have it."

There was no time to say more, for just then the carriage pulled up under the fine old portico.

Again there was that sense of stiffness and awkwardness as the Dixons came forward to greet their cousins; there was no triumphant entry and welcome to the old home. Mrs. Chase drew Mrs. Orban in; Mr. Chase took Mr. Orban; Becky, sleepy and perfectly placid, was whisked away by a grave-faced, elderly woman who said, "Come along, sir," to Peter, and disappeared through a red baize door, whither the little fellow had to follow.

"We're to have meals with the little ones in the schoolroom," said Brenda, to whom this new rule was not pleasing. "Come and get ready."

Now that she was a schoolgirl, and only home for holidays, she had all her meals with her grandparents except late dinner; but the arrival of the Orbans put an end to this. It was felt that the perpetual presence of such a crowd of youngsters at meals would never do. To Brenda and Herbert the change was typical of the whole difference these unwelcome guests would make in their lives.

"Couldn't we just have one look round first?" said Nesta, staring about her in proprietary admiration at the walls of the great hall, where hung the horns and weapons, the family portraits and trophies, of bygone Chases. "I would like just to see the secret chamber. Let me see--it must be through that door and up some steps--"

She stopped inquiringly.

"No, it isn't," Brenda said, with a look of surprise; "you go just the other way. But there isn't time now; Herbert and I will show you everything to-morrow."

Nesta looked taken aback.

"I don't expect I shall need much showing," she said, with a little air of importance.

Her cousins both stared at her.

"You certainly will," said Herbert decidedly; "it isn't at all an easy house to find one's way about in, I can tell you. You would go blundering into all sorts of places you oughtn't to."

"Places we oughtn't to?" repeated Eustace in bewilderment.

"Yes, the servants' quarters, you know," said Herbert, as if he were talking to a child of eight.

"Aren't you allowed to go into the servants' quarters?" asked Nesta wonderingly.

"Oh, we're _allowed_, of course," said Herbert; "but one doesn't go. I dare say things were rather mixed out with you, though."

"What do you mean?" asked Eustace abruptly.

"Oh, you had to rough it rather, hadn't you?" said the elder boy.

"I had a sort of idea you all had meals together."

"With the servants?" questioned Eustace.

"Yes," said Herbert, with perfect gravity.

Eustace flushed deeply.

"Oh, of course," he said, "coolies and every one had meals together. We all ate out of a trough."

"Eustace!" exclaimed Nesta in dismay, wondering what had happened to him all of a sudden.

The cousins stared at him blankly, hardly realizing for a moment what he had said.