Laura was to go as nursemaid under one of her mother’s old nurse friends with whom she had kept up a correspondence. Then, in time, she would be head nurse herself in what was then known as “a good family;” where, if she did not marry, she would be sure of a home for life, for the imaginary good family her mother had in mind was of the kind where loved old nurses dressed in black silk and had a room of their own in which to receive confidences. But these ideas did not interest the children so much as that of having houses of their own in which they could do as they liked. “And you’ll come to stay with me and I shall spring-clean the house and bake some pies the day before,” promised Laura, who knew from her mother’s example what was due to an honoured guest. Edmund’s idea was that he would have treacle mixed with milk for dinner without any bread at all, but then he was much younger than she was.

Neither story-telling, singing, nor talking could go on for ever. The time always came, and always came too soon for them, when their mother would whisk them off to bed, “For your father cannot be much longer now,” and stay to hear them say their prayers, “Our Father” and “Gentle Jesus,” then “Gawbless dear Mammy an’ Daddy an’ dear little brother [or sister] an’ all kind friends an’ alations…”

Laura was not sure who the friends were, but she knew that the relations included the Candleford aunts, her father’s sisters, who sent them nice parcels at Christmas, and the cousins whose wardrobes she inherited. The aunts were kind—she knew that, for when she opened the parcels her mother would say, “It’s very kind of Edith, I’m sure,” or, more warmly, although the parcel might not be as exciting, “If ever there was a good kind soul in this world, it’s your Aunt Ann.”