“Who lives at Fairstowe, Harry? Mother has got a letter from Fairstowe; she seemed so glad, and ran upstairs to father with it.”

“Don’t you know? Why, it is the name of Mrs. Fowler’s place⁠—mother’s old mistress, you know⁠—the lady that father met last summer, who sent you and me five shillings each.”

“Oh! Mrs. Fowler. Of course, I know all about her. I wonder what she is writing to mother about.”

“Mother wrote to her last week,” said Harry, “you know she told father if ever he gave up the cab work she would like to know. I wonder what she says; run in and see, Dolly.”

Harry scrubbed away at Hotspur with a huish! huish! like any old hostler. In a few minutes Dolly came dancing into the stable.