"We don't want that," Carey told him sharply. "Put it up against the tree." "But it's Miss Price's." "How do you mean-Miss Price's? It's the garden broom." Paul looked indignant. "It isn't ours. It's hers. It's what she fell off. It's what she rides on." Carey and Charles stood up, their faces red from stooping, and stared at Paul.
"What she rides on?" "Yes. Don't you, Miss Price?" Miss Price became paler than ever. She looked from one child to another. She opened her mouth and then she shut it again, as if no words would come.
"You're quite good at it, aren't you, Miss Price?" Paul went on encouragingly. "You weren't at first." Then Miss Price began to cry. She pulled out her handkerchief and held it over her face. "Oh, dear," she said, "oh, dear! Now I suppose everybody knows." Carey put her arms round Miss Price's neck. It was what you always did to people when they cried.
"It's all right, Miss Price. Nobody knows. Nobody knows at all. Paul didn't even tell us. It's quite all right. I think it's wonderful to ride on a broomstick." "It's very difficult," said Miss Price, but she blew her nose.
They helped her to her feet. Carey felt puzzled and very excited, but she didn't like to ask any more. Slowly and painfully they made their way through the garden and down the lane that led to Miss Price's house. The rising sun glimmered through the hedgerows and turned the dust in the roadway to pale gold. Carey and Charles went very carefully, and Miss Price flapped