Grandfather had fixed that it would be best to go straight through at once to the seaport, where, the next morning, they would find the 'normous boat waiting to take them over the sea. They had to pa.s.s through London on the way, and, by the time they got to the big London station, Baby was very tired--so white and quiet that mother was a little frightened.

"I almost wish," she said, "that we had fixed to stay all night in London. Baby has never had a long railway journey before, since he was a _real_ Baby, you know, and he is not very strong."

She was speaking to auntie. It was just when they were getting near the big London station. Auntie looked at Baby. He was lying on Lisa's knee with his eyes shut, as if he were asleep, but he wasn't. He heard what they said, and he was rather pleased at them talking about him. In _some_ ways he was very fond of being made a fuss about.

"He does look a little white shrimp," said auntie. "But then you know, May, he is so fair. He looks more quickly white if he is tired than other children. And he has been such a good little man all day--not one bit of trouble. He is really a capital traveller--_ever_ so much quieter than the others."

She said these last few words in a low tone, not caring for the other children to hear; but if she had spoken quite loud I don't think they would have heard, and, indeed, it seemed as if they wanted to show that auntie's words were true; for just at that moment there came such a scream from Denny that everybody started up in a fright.

What _could_ be the matter? everybody asked.

"It's all Denny," said Fritz, in a great fuss.

"It's not; it's all Fritz and Celia," said Denny.

"It's both of them," said Celia. "Mother, I wish you wouldn't let them be near each other. Denny put her hand into the dormice's cage when Fritz wasn't looking, and she poked out Tim, who was just beginning to come awake for the night, and she as nearly as _could_ be got his tail pulled off, and then, when Fritz caught her, she screamed."

"Fritz snipped my hand in the little door of the cage," sobbed Denny.

"And Celia always takes Fritz's part."

Celia was beginning; to "answer back," when auntie stopped her by a look--the children were sometimes rather afraid of auntie's "looks."

"Dear me, young people," said grandfather from his end of the carriage, "you might be peaceable for five minutes, and then we shall be in London, and you shall have a good tea before we go on again."

The children all grew quiet. They were glad to hear of tea, and they were a little ashamed of themselves. Auntie moved over to their end of the carriage.

"Him would like some tea too, p'ease," said Baby, as she pa.s.sed him, and auntie patted his head.

"They are all tired, I suppose," said mother; "but it really is too silly, the way they quarrel about nothing."

"Auntie," said Celia softly, "I think it was partly my fault. Denny and Fritz asked me to tell them a story, and I wouldn't. It would have kept them quiet."

"Well, never mind now," said auntie. "You must all try and be very good to-morrow. This is only the first day, you know. You can't be expected to be very clever travellers yet. And the very first lesson to learn in travelling is--do you know what?"

"Not to lose your things?" said Celia.

"To be ready in time?" said Fritz.

"To sit still in the railway?" said Denny, rather meekly.

"All those are very good things," said auntie; "but they're not _the_ thing I was thinking of. It was _to keep your temper_."

The children got rather red, but I don't think any one noticed, for already the train was slackening, and in another minute or two they all got out and were standing together on the bustling platform, dimly lighted up by the gas lamps, which looked yellow and strange in the foggy air of a London November evening.

"Is zit London?" said Baby, and when Celia said "yes," he added rather mournfully, "Him doesn't sink London's pitty at all."

[Ill.u.s.tration: Poor little boys, for after all, Fritz himself wasn't very big! They stood together hand in hand on the station platform, looking, and feeling, rather desolate.--P. 84.]

Poor little boys, for, after all, Fritz himself wasn't very big! They stood together hand in hand on the station platform, looking, and feeling, rather desolate. Lisa was busy helping with the rugs and bags that had been in the carriage; mother and auntie, as well as grandfather and Peters and the maid, were all busy about the luggage.

"Stay there a moment, children," said somebody; but Denny had no idea of staying anywhere. Off she trotted to have a look at the luggage too, and Celia was half inclined to follow her, when her glance fell on her two little brothers.

"Celia," said Baby, catching hold of her, "don't go away too. Fritz is taking care of him, but we _might_ be lostened."

He spoke rather timidly, and Celia's heart was touched. She was a good deal older than the others--nearly twelve--Fritz and Denny were very near in age, and sometimes Celia was a little cross at mother for not making difference enough, as she thought, and for keeping her still a good deal in the nursery. Mother had her own good reasons, and it is not always wise for big people to tell children their reasons, as Celia got to know when she grew wiser and bigger herself. She sometimes spoke rather crossly to the younger ones, and it made them a very little afraid of her, but in her heart she was kind. Just now she stooped down to kiss Baby.

"Don't be frightened, poor old man," she said, "you won't be lost. Fritz wouldn't let you be lost, would you, Fritz?"

Fritz brightened up at that, as Celia had meant he should. He, too, had been feeling a little strange and queer--the long journey and the sleeping in the day, all so different from their life at home, had rather upset him--but he would not have liked to say so! And now he was quite pleased at Celia telling Baby that, of course, Fritz was big enough to take care of him. It is so easy for children--bigger ones above all--to please each other and give nice feelings, when they really try to feel _with_ each other and _for_ each other.

The little boys looked much happier a few minutes later, when they were seated at tea in a comfortable corner of the refreshment room.

Grandfather had sent Peters on, as soon as they had got the luggage all safe, to see that a table was placed for them by themselves. He, himself, went off to get some real dinner, for, of course, it was not to be expected that a gentleman, and especially an _old_ gentleman, would be contented with tea, and bread and b.u.t.ter, and buns, however nice, but, to the children's great pleasure, mother and auntie said _they_ would far rather stay and have tea with the little people.

"It is a good thing, isn't it, for them to stay with us?" said Fritz to Celia, confidentially, "for we are none of us _very_ big, are we? And you know we _might_ get lost somehow, as Baby says, though I wouldn't say so to him for fear of frightening him, you know."

"No, of course not," said Celia, and looking up she was pleased to see mother smiling at her. Mother saw that Celia was trying to be kind and helpful, and she did so like to see the way the little ones clung to Celia when she was gentle. Mother must have been something like Baby in her mind, I think, for when she looked at the boys sitting there in the strange, big station-room, their little faces grave and rather tired looking, a sort of sorry feeling came over _her_ too, as she thought of the snug, cosy nursery at home, and the neat nursery tea, with the pretty pink and white cups she had chosen, and the canaries and "Bully"

twittering in the window. Poor "calanies" and poor Bully! they didn't know where they had got to! They had slept nearly all day, thinking, as they were meant to think, that it was night, I suppose, but now they must have given up thinking so, for they were fidgeting about in their cages in an unhappy, restless sort of way. They had plenty of seed, and Celia and Lisa took care that they should have fresh water, but still, poor little things, they were not very happy.

"Going away from their own home is really a trial for children," thought mother. She was a little tired herself, and being tired makes _everything_ seem the wrong way.

But there was no help for it. They had all to make the best of things, and to set off again in another train and be rattled away to the sea. It was quite dark by now, of course, and it seemed very queer to start on another journey with so little rest between. I think, however, once they were all settled in the railway carriage, that the children slept the most of the way; Baby, at any rate, knew nothing more till he woke up to find himself in Lisa's arms, with a cold, fresh air--the air of the sea--blowing in his face, and making him lift up his head and look about him.

"Where is him?" he said. "Is him in the 'normous boat?"

"Not so, Herr Baby," said Lisa. "He shall first be undressed and have a nice sleep all night in bed, to rest him well. Lie still, mine child, and Lisa will keep you warm."

"Him likes the wind," said Baby. "It blowed his eyes open; him is quite awake now," and he tried to sit straight up in Lisa's arms.

"Oh, Herr Baby, I cannot hold you so," said Lisa.

"There is such a little way to go," said his mother, who was just behind, "lie still, dear, as Lisa tells you."

"Him would like to walk, him's legs is so 'tiff," said Baby. "P'ease let him walk if it's such a little way!"

His voice was so piteous that mother told Lisa to let him walk; they were going from the station to the hotel, a very little way, as mother had said. Lisa put Baby down on the ground; at first he really tumbled over, his legs felt so funny, but with Lisa's hand he soon got his balance again. It was a very dark night; they could not have seen their way but for the lights of the station and the town.

"What a dark countly zit is!" said Herr Baby. "Is there no moon in zit countly? Denny says in her hymn 'the moon to shine by night,' is there no moon 'cept in him's own countly?"

"What are you chattering about, little man?" said auntie.

"He's asking about the moon, auntie; he wants to know if there isn't any moon here. He thinks we've left it behind at home," said Denny.

A sort of roar from poor Baby interrupted her.

"Oh, Denny, don't, _don't_ say that," he cried, "it makes him sink of the labbits, and Thomas, and Jones, and the trees, and the flowers, and him's dear little bed, and all the sings we'se leaved behind. Him doesn't like you to speak of leaved behind."

"_Poor_ Baby," said Denny, "I'm so sorry." She stooped down to kiss him, but it was so dark it wasn't easy to find his mouth, and she only managed to kiss the tip of his nose, which was as cold as a little dog's. This made Herr Baby begin laughing, which was a good thing, wasn't it? And he was so taken up in explaining to Lisa how funny it felt when Denny kissed his nose, that he had not time to think of his sorrows again till they were at the foot of the large flight of steps leading up to the big hotel where they were to sleep.