looked at the parcels. Some were done up in old, dirty newspapers, and tied with bits of rag, and some were in brown paper and string from the shops, and there were boxes. We wondered if the Uncle had come to stay and this was his luggage, or whether it was to sell. Some of it smelt of spices, like merchandise—and one bundle Alice felt certain was a bale. We heard a hand on the knob of the study door after a bit, and Alice said—
"Fly!" and we all got away but H. O., and the Uncle caught him by the leg as he was trying to get upstairs after us.
"Peeping at the baggage, eh?" said the Uncle, and the rest of us came down because it would have been dishonourable to leave H. O. alone in a scrape, and we wanted to see what was in the parcels.
"I didn't touch," said H. O. "Are you coming to stay? I hope you are."
"No harm done if you did touch," said the good, kind, Indian man to all of us. "For all these parcels are for you."
I have several times told you about our being dumb with amazement and terror and joy, and things like that, but I never remember us being dumber than we were when he said this.
