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ferns along the edge of Miss Potter’s garden. The lions and tigers were Miss Potter’s Herdwick sheep and Galloway cows, and the great mountain peak, which seemed only a stone’s throw off to their right, was really the slate roof of the Tower Bank Arms. However, it was just as well to be quiet. Miss Potter had given her permission to bring the older children to the farm, but Deirdre didn’t like to call attention to their visits, in case Miss Potter was working at one of her books or having a lie-down in her bedroom overlooking the garden.
    The valiant band of explorers crawled out from under the lilac bushes and went along the path to the barn, where they said hello to Kep and Mustard, the two Hill Top dogs, and lay down on their stomachs to have a look at Jemima, who was sitting on a clutch of eggs under the feedbox. In fact, as Libby pointed out, the duck had been sitting there for quite some time, far longer than the twenty-eight days usually required to hatch a duckling.
    “I wonder what’s taking so long,” Jamie said worriedly.
    “Do you suppose the eggs have spoilt?” Libby asked.
    Jemima gave several soft quacks, and Mouse smiled. “She promises they’ll hatch soon,” she said, and stroked Jemima’s snowy white feathers with a soft finger.
    “Before we go back to school, I hope,” grumbled Jamie, and at the mention of school, the three of them groaned.
    After a few minutes, Deirdre said, “We’d better get home before the rain starts.” The second time she said it, the children clambered reluctantly to their feet, brushed the straw off their clothes, and followed Deirdre out of the barn. They had gone only a little way on the path toward home when there was a clap of thunder so loud it made all of them jump, and a gust of wind so fierce it nearly bowled them over.
    “My goodness,” gasped Deirdre, as Mouse grabbed for one hand and Libby for the other, while Jamie tried to pretend he wasn’t at all frightened, only just taken aback for a moment.
    They had barely got their breaths when they looked up and saw an odd-looking person standing directly in front of them, a basket over her arm. The old woman was no taller than Libby, who was the tallest of the Suttons, and dressed in layers of pinafores, one on top of another, with knitted shawls and woolen scarves wrapped all around.
    “Who . . . who are you ?” Deirdre managed at last. She had the distinct impression that the lady had been blown there by the wind, which of course was entirely impossible.
    “I am Mrs. Overthewall,” the lady said cheerily. “Who else would I be? And you are Deirdre, of course.” Raising one finger, she pointed to each child in turn. “And Libby, Jamie, and Mouse, adventurers all. I congratulate you on scaling that last mountain, cannibals notwithstanding.”
    They stood with their mouths open. No one said a word.
    “A magpie will get your tongues,” said Mrs. Overthewall, and all four of them snapped their mouths shut.
    “You startled us,” Deirdre said. “We . . . we didn’t see you.”
    “Of course you didn’t. People don’t. They’re not supposedto.” She gave Deirdre a benevolent look. “I have something for you.” And with that, she thrust the basket into Deirdre’s hands. It was so unexpectedly heavy that Deirdre nearly dropped it.
    “What is it?” Libby asked uncertainly, bending over to look. They all heard a small cry, and she jumped back, startled. “Why, it’s a baby !” she exclaimed.
    “I knew you’d like it,” said Mrs. Overthewall smugly. “It’s a nice baby. It never cries.” She pulled her scanty gray brows together. “Well, almost never. Only when it wants its nappy changed. Her nappy,” she corrected. “She’s a girl. Her name is—” She scowled and began looking through her shawls. “Where did I put that? Where— Ah, here it is.” She took out a scrap of paper. “Her name is Flora,” she announced, and dropped the paper into the basket.
    Deirdre pulled the