Hughie was like her, but the other three followed rather faithfully in Captain Romilly’s pattern, except that Adrian was on the way to be tall--had outgrown his sixteen-year-old strength, in fact, which was no doubt why the influenza fiend had driven him home in term time.

"Well," Pamela concluded with a question, "will that do?"

Miss Chance thought it would.  Mrs. Romilly, finishing letters in a hurry for the 5.30 post, thought it would too. The stores were very important, as Mrs. Jeep was "out" of nearly everything that made life pleasing, and there was no fruit yet in the garden to help out puddings.

"Don’t tire yourself, darling," murmured Mrs. Romilly, writing an address.

"I shan’t be back by six o’clock, Mummy--at least most likely not--coming back is easy but going will be uphill most of the way."

"So it will."  Mrs. Romilly spoke as though this was a new idea.  Then she turned her head and smiled at Pamela with serene large blue eyes, "I dare say the _Messenger_ won’t be punctual," she said, "so the others will be late, and anyway, dear child, tea can be kept for you, so don’t hurry--and thank you so much for going."

Pamela wheeled the bicycle up the drive into the narrow road that ran up and up close under a towering hill-side. All along it, hanging over the road, were banks of fuchsia trees--in summer the whole track would be a sheet of fallen fuchsia blossom.  She passed the Temperance Inn on her right, then the church upon the height among the fuchsias, and soon after that the little fairy house called "Fuchsia Cottage", where lived Miss Anne Lasarge, the small grey lady called "The Little Pilgrim" by the Romilly family, because she was like a character in a book they loved.

Miss Anne had done wonders during the War; she had been out in the devastated regions of France working among the homeless peasants.  She had only been back since Christmas.  Pamela looked at the cottage as she passed. It was like a lovely toy--an ideal cottage--the atmosphere of Miss Anne made a distinct sense of peace cling to it all the year round. No one was in the garden, no one working on the three little terraces bright with flowers, that rose one above another to the lattice-paned bow window of Miss Anne’s sitting-room.

Pamela was the least bit disappointed.  There was perfect understanding between her and Miss Anne--who possessed a genius for understanding everybody, and everybody’s worries.  She knew that it was 

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