"Here we are!" says father, presently, and he signals to the driver. The bus pulls up at the entrance to a small street, father shoulders the bag, and Betty, scrambling down after him, soon finds herself standing on the shabby little front doorstep of her home.
A narrow, dull street it is; closely packed with dull houses, all built in one pattern, all alike grey with smoke, all looking as though no breath of spring air, or gleam of spring sunshine, could ever find their way through the close-shut windows.
All too swiftly Betty's thoughts travel back to the white cottage in the hills, to the sunny garden, the fresh moorland breezes.
The contrast is too much for her; a big lump seems to rise in her throat. Her eyes fill with tears; her good resolutions fade away.
She doesn't want to be at home--Oh, that she were with Grannie now!
Father has found his key at last, and fits it into the lock. At the same moment there i