"I like it very much, and thank you kindly," said Dickie presently. "And the tea and all. An' the egg. And this is the prettiest place ever I see. But I ought to be getting 'ome. I shall catch it a fair treat as it is. She was waitin' for the wood to boil the kettle when I come out."
"Mother?"
"Aunt. Not me real aunt. Only I calls her that."
"She any good?"
"Ain't bad when she's in a good temper."
"That ain't what she'll be in when you gets back. Seems to me you've gone and done it, mate. Why, it's hours and hours since you and me got acquainted. Look! the sun's just going."
It was, over trees more beautiful than any thing Dickie had ever seen, for they were now in a country road, with green hedges and green grass growing beside it, in which little round-faced flowers grew—daisies they were—even Dickie knew that.
"I got to stick it," said Dickie sadly. "I'd best be getting home."
"I wouldn't go 'ome, not if I was you," said the man. "I'd go out and see the world a bit, I would."
"What—me?" said Dickie.
"Why not? Come, I'll make you a fair offer. Ye come alonger me an' see life! I'm agoin' to tramp as far as Brighton and back, all alongside the sea. Ever seed the sea?"
