"Well," said Peter to herself, "I never thought gipsies were as nice as that. They were a bit dirty, but they were fun... I wonder what my fortune would have been... P'raps I was silly not to let Miranda tell it... Oh, dear, now I've got to go and find gloomy old Seven Gates, I suppose..."

The road rushed downhill now and Peter sped between the darkening woods with the wind piling up the clouds behind her. The lovely foretaste of spring which the morning's sun had brought was forgotten. When she pedalled through the next village the road was spattered with raindrops, and, high up on her left, the lonely Stiperstone range loomed menacingly over the cottages and tiny church. Peter shivered. She hated the journey now.

Then the worst happened. Her back wheel bumped and, when she got off to investigate, the tyre was flat. There was nothing to do but to try and mend the puncture, and feeling that this was just what would happen today, Peter turned her bicycle up by the ditch and felt in her saddlebag for the puncture set. It was not there. She looked again, without luck. As the rain increased, she went through her haversack. Then she remembered that a girl at school had borrowed it three days before.

Peter had had a big day, but there seemed no alternative to a long walk. The knapsack seemed to weigh a ton, but she plodded on doggedly, and at last saw the welcome white gleam of a signpost ahead where a narrow lane branched off to the left towards the mountain. "Barton Beach 2 miles," it read.

After a little she heard behind her the sound of someone whistling and the clop of horses' hooves. She was so tired now that she willingly waited to see what was coming. Round the corner of the lane came an ancient horse and trap driven by a red-headed girl of about twelve, who pulled up when she saw Peter.

Peter rather liked what she saw, for the girl had a good-natured freckled face, with a snub nose. She smiled, but did not speak.

"I say," Peter said, "could you give me a lift to Barton Beach? I've got a puncture and I've walked simply miles... D'you think we could hoist the bike up on the back?"

"What are you going to Barton for?" the girl asked slowly.

Peter reddened. "To see my uncle, if you must know, but if you can't give me a lift don't bother. I can walk."

"You must be the girl coming to Seven Gates," was the reply.

"How do you know where I am going, and what's it to do with you?"

"Oh, don't get in a bate," the other went on calmly. "My Mum keeps the post office and we know everything. There was a telegram about you... Jump up - oh, wait a sec. I'll help you haul up the bike."