"A pity to bring
children up like that," said the country-woman, confidentially.
"Sweets enough to make 'em bad for a week, to say nothing of the
giddy-go-rounds and ginger-bread. Ah, well, 'twasn't like it in my
young days. Not that I'm against a good wholesome cake or two,
especially for young folks. I'll give _you_ one if you'll read this
letter to me?" she added, looking inquiringly at Dick. "You see, I'm
going to see my son at Manchester, and they've sent to tell me all
about the changing at Crow Junction, and I can't read writing very
well."
Dick had been enjoying the sight of fields and hedges rushing past and
trying to count the telegraph wires, but he turned at once and said,
"I'll read it with pleasure, if I can. And I'm getting out at Crow
Junction, and I can help you change, if I can find out what it means."
"It's getting out of one train into another, and you might carry my
basket, maybe. You see, I've got a band-box, and my umbrella and
pattens besides. I had to bring them, not knowing how the roads might
be up there, and with damp feet I get rheumaticy directly."
Dick managed to get through the ill-spelled letter, and learned its
instructions by heart, and then was rewarded with a home-made flakey
cake, out of the big basket, that was better than all the fairings they
had left behind.
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