Chapter 3

There was a flower-market once a week in the town of Northclough.

It was every Thursday, the regular market-day, when the country people came in to sell and to buy. But Northclough was not a pretty, old-fashioned country town, such as you would very likely fancy from the mention of markets and country folk. Once, long ago, it had been a village, a rather lonely and out-of-the-way village, though never a pretty one. For it was up in the north, as its name tells, in a bare and cold part of the world, where the grass is never very brightly green, and the skies much more often grey than blue.

And now, as far as looks go, any way, it had changed from bad to worse. The village had grown into a smoky town, where there were lots of high chimneys, and constant sounds of machinery booming away, and railway trains shrieking and whistling in and out of the stations. There was no longer any ivy on the old church, which the oldest people could remember almost buried in it. And the new churches which had been built since, already looked old themselves--no stones could keep clean or fresh in such smoky grimy air.

But some of the old customs still lingered on, and one was the weekly market, which was held just outside the old church walls--the walls of the church-yard, I should say--every Thursday, just as it had been since the village first grew into a small market town, more than a hundred years ago. And what some people would have done without the pleasure and amusement of this market, I should be afraid to say. I mean some _little_ people, the children of the vicar, who lived with their parents in a grey old house, as grey and old as the church itself, which stood at one side of the market place.

It was grey and grim outside, but inside the father and mother made it as bright and cheery as they could. In winter I think they managed this better than in summer, for good blazing fires do a great deal, especially of an evening when the curtains are drawn and the cold north wind, howling and blustering outside as if in a rage at not being able to get in, only makes the house seem still cosier. And one of the good things about the north is that coals are cheap and plentiful, so that though the vicar was not rich, there was no need to go without comfortable fires.

But in summer it was sometimes _not_ easy to make the old house look cheerful. Very little sunshine could get in, for on two sides the neighbouring houses almost shut out the light. And the sun had hard work, persevering though he is, to get through the murky air--murky even in summer--that hangs like a curtain over what is called a "manufacturing town." Then there was no garden of any kind, as the new schools had been built on what was once the vicarage lawn, though after all I hardly think a garden would have been much good, and perhaps the children's nurse was right when she said:

"Better without it, 'twould only have been a trap for more soots and smuts, and it's hard enough to keep the pinafores clean for half-an-hour together as it is."

Nurse had come with their mother from the south, and she didn't take kindly to the greyness, and the smokiness, and the grimness at all. But she took very kindly to the babies, which was after all of more consequence.

There were four of them--they were "leaving off being babies" now, as little Ruth, the youngest but one, said indignantly, when some one spoke of her and Charlie in that disrespectful way. "Charlie's three and I'm four, and Pansy's nearly six, and Bob's seven past."

That was Ruth's description of the family, and I think it will do very well, though some people might say it began at the wrong end.

And these were the little people who would have been badly off without the weekly market, which they looked forward to as the "next best" treat to having tea in the dining-room on Saturday evenings with mamma.

Their nursery windows overlooked the market place. The nurseries were the brightest rooms in the house, and as it was a large house, whatever its faults in other ways, there were three of them. The day nursery in the middle and a large bedroom on one side, and on the other a small one which was beginning to be called "Miss Pansy's room." And on Thursdays Pansy's room was in great request, as from _its_ window one had the best view of all of the market, especially of the corner where the flowers were.

There was always _something_ to be seen on the flower-stalls, even in winter, when there was nothing else there were evergreens, holly and mistletoe of course, in plenty, as Christmas came on. And though some other parts of the market might be more amusing and exciting, where the cocks and hens, and geese and ducks, were all to be heard gabbling, and quacking and clucking and crowing, for instance; or the railed-in place where there were generally a few calves or poor little frightened sheep bleating and baa-ing, yet the little girl's first thought was always the flower corner. First thing on Thursday morning, sometimes before it was light, she would lie wondering what sort of dear little plants there would be _this_ week, and hoping it would be a fine day, so that nurse would let her poke her head out through the bars a tiny bit, so as to see better, without calling to her that she would catch cold.

Pansy's birthday was in May--she was going to be six. She liked having a birthday because mamma always invited herself to tea in the nursery, and if it happened to be one of papa's not very busiest days, he would sometimes join them too. That _was_ delightful.

Generally she got two or three simple presents, and always one very good and valuable one from her godmother. But strange to say this handsome present never pleased her half so much as the little trifling ones. Her godmother was kind, but she was old and unused to children, and she had not seen Pansy since she was very tiny, so her thought was more perhaps about helping Pansy's mother than pleasing Pansy herself. And so the present was sure to be a new frock--or stuff to make one with, or a nice jacket, or even once--that was _rather_ a funny present for a little girl, I think--a new set of china tea-cups and saucers and plates and milk jugs and everything complete for a nursery tea-service.

But "to make up" for godmother's presents being so very "useful," Pansy's mother always gave her something pretty and pleasant, a doll, or some doll's furniture, or picture books or some nice ornament for her room. Any little girl of six or seven can easily fancy the kind of presents I mean.

This sixth birthday, however, was going to be rather different. For on this day the godmother thought it was time to give Pansy a present of another kind. What that was, I will tell you in the next part.

PANSY'S PRESENTS.