Mother, Father, Aunt Amy, Uncle Samuel, and, most interesting of all, Barbara and the new nurse.

The new nurse was called Mrs.Pateham, and she was stout, red-cheeked, and smiling.

The bundle in white called Barbara was, most happily, sleeping; but Hamlet barked at Mrs.Pateham, and that woke Barbara, who began to cry.

Then Collins came in with his coat off, and the muscles swelling on his shoulders, and handled the boxes as though they were paper, and the cook, and Rose, and William, the handy-boy, and old Jordan, the gardener, and Mrs.Preston, a lady from two doors down, who sometimes came in to help, all began to bob and smile, and Father said: "Now, my dear.

Now, my dear," and Hamlet wound himself and his lead round everything that he could see, and Helen fussed and said: "Now, Jeremy," and Miss Jones said: "Now, children," and last of all Collins said: "Now, mum; now, sir," and then they all were bundled into the bus, with the cart and the luggage coming along behind.
The drive through the streets was, of course, as lovely as it could be; not in the least because anyone could see anything--that was hindered by the fact that the windows of the bus were so old that they were crusted with a kind of glassy mildew, and no amount of rubbing on the window-panes provided one with a view--but because the inside of the bus was inevitably connected with adventure--partly through its motion, partly through its noise, and partly through its lovely smell.