if I could, baby," she said; "but oh, the sea! the sea! I just do pine for it. I'll bring you back lots of shells, baby, that I will, and you won't mind old Mrs. Court for once, and I'll have such tales to tell you when I come back."

So Netty went to find old Mrs. Court, and between them they arranged for the baby's comfort on the following day and Mrs. Court was to have her twopence in the evening.

But the best-made plans do not always come to pass, for Netty that evening received a lecture from her Mother on the subject of Mrs. Court.

"What is this I hear?" cried the good woman; "that you mean to give baby to the care of that old woman! Not a bit of it! I wouldn't allow the baby to be seen in her rooms for all you could give me. What do you want to get rid of the baby for? And what are you trying to hide from me, Netty?"

"It's nothing really, Mother; it's just that Ben and I are going to walk to Battersea Park, and we've a penny apiece to buy buns. You won't stop us going, Mother?"

"Now aren't you an unnatural girl!" cried Mrs. Floss. "Why shouldn't you take the poor baby with you? Wouldn't he like a sight of the park and the green trees as well as you? If you take the baby with you, I'll give you each another penny, and an extra one for the baby, and you can all have a good time; now what do you say?"

"I suppose I must do it, Mother," answered Netty; "and you're very kind," she hastened to add.

Mrs. Floss was far too busy to spend any more time talking to Netty. She regarded the affair as absolutely settled, and went downstairs to tell Mrs. Court that she was not to have the pleasure of looking after the baby the following day.

The next morning broke gloriously fine. Even as early as six o'clock it was intensely hot in the attic where Netty slept. She had laid out all her best things the night before—her blue cotton frock, carefully washed and mangled, her cape to match, her sailor hat, somewhat ragged round the brim, but not very dirty; even her cotton gloves. These last she regarded as great treasures, and imagined that they would give a distinctly genteel air to her appearance.

As there was no possible way out of it, she must take the baby, too, and she must just trust to luck to pulling the thing through. She knew enough about tramways and omnibuses and railway carriages to be aware that a baby in arms costs nothing, and she did not mind little Dan's weight—she was accustomed to it; and she would like very much, as far as she herself was concerned, to take him to the seaside.

Accordingly, the baby was also got early out of his wooden cot, and dressed in his very best clothes. The baby's best frock was made of Turkey-red cotton, very faded, and he had a small worn-out fifth-hand sun-bonnet tied under his chin, and his little legs were bare, but that did not matter—it was, indeed, rather an advantage this hot weather.

Ben frowned very much when he saw the baby.

"Now, what do you mean by this?" he cried; "how can you be Susy Minchin dragging that big baby about with you? You give it to Mrs. Court."

"No, no," pleaded poor Netty; "Mother said I wasn't to leave baby with Mrs. Court; we must bring Dan with us. There, Ben, you won't say no."

Ben looked decidedly cross, but Netty had a very coaxing way with her.

"Come along then," he said roughly; but there was a tenderness in that rough tone, and Netty knew that her cause was won. It never occurred to Ben to offer to carry the baby for Netty, but he made up his mind that he must smuggle it through somehow.

The pair reached the great station in good time, and were joined by a lot of other children, and several teachers and Sunday-school superintendents of all sorts, and also several clergymen.

Ben and Netty soon mingled with the crowd and were marched in orderly array past a gentleman who looked at each ticket and took down each name as they went by. When it came to Ben's turn he called out manfully: "Tom Minchin," nudging Netty at the same time.

"Susy Minchin," she said. But here the little party were called to halt.

"Susy Minchin, what are you doing with that baby?" said Mr. Stokes, the curate.

Poor little Netty, alias Susy, found herself turning red and then pale.

"Please, sir," she said, dropping a curtsey that she was accustomed to make to her Board-school teacher, "please, I couldn't come without Dan."

"But I didn't know that Mrs. Minchin had a young baby," said the curate, who was very young and fair-haired himself, and looked much puzzled what to do.

"It would kill me to go back now, sir," said Netty, and there was such a passion of entreaty in her soft eyes and such a tremble round her pale lips that the young curate looked at a pretty girl who was standing near, and the pretty girl said:

"Oh! poor little dear, she shan't be disappointed. I would rather take the baby myself."

"But it's against the rules," said the curate, "and others may take advantage of it."

"You shan't be prevented from going, little Susy Minchin," said the girl, now coming forward. "Give me the baby until you are all well started; then you shall have it back again."

No sooner said than done—little Daniel was quickly transferred to the arms of the fair-haired and very beautiful young lady, and Netty, alias Susy, marched on in triumph.

"That was well done; I call that young lady a brick," whispered Netty to Ben, but Ben replied:

"Be quiet, and come along."

They reached the great train and were huddled into their compartments, and then slowly but surely it got up steam and moved out of the station, and then, gathering speed, flew past the ugly houses, past the rows of hot and dingy streets, into the pure, fresh lovely country.

Netty caught her breath in her rapture, her eyes shone with pure happiness, but in the midst of all her rejoicings a sudden memory of little Dan came to distress her.

"I have brought his bottle with me," she said, tapping her pocket, "and he'll be hungry by now. I wish the lady would give him back."

"You stay quiet," said Ben, nudging her; "where's the use of bothering?"

The train flew through the country faster and faster, the air blew more and more fresh against Netty's cheeks. She began to sniff. Could that delicious smell be the smell of the sea, the great, rolling blue sea which she had never seen, but which she had so often dreamed about?

There was another little white-faced girl who sat near Netty, and Netty asked her if she thought they were getting near the sea. She had a sharp face and had been to the sea before, and she rather despised Netty for her ignorance. Poor Netty was about to sink back into her seat with a feeling of disappointment when a grave-looking lady who had the charge of the compartment said, in a quiet voice:

"We cannot reach the sea for a long time yet, little girl, but I see you are much pleased and very much interested in everything; would you like to come and sit near me?"

All too willingly Netty changed her seat, and presently she and the kind lady entered into a vigorous conversation. Netty confessed how anxious she was about the baby. She tapped the bottle in her pocket and described how she had made the necessary food with milk and water and a pinch of sugar.

"Dan will be fretting for his lunch by now," she said; "I do wish I could get hold of him."

"We shall be stopping at a big station in two or three minutes now," said the lady, whose name was Mrs. Holmes, "and I will get out and find Miss