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name is Sir Charles Sheridan.”
    Betsy narrowed her eyes, forgetting for the moment her uneasiness. She had never before been personally introduced to a “sir,” although she saw the Gentry every week, riding helter-skelter down the High Street on skittish horses, brandishing riding crops, and shouting arrogantly at the villagers who got in their way. She herself had often been pinned against the churchyard wall by the horses. She had no admiration for gentry.
    â€œHow fortunate that you are going to the green grocer’s,” Sir Charles remarked. “Your errand reminds me that I meant to buy a button for my coat.” He bent over and showed her his sleeve, from which indeed a button was missing. “If you will permit me, Miss Oliver, I will accompany you to the grocer’s. There, perhaps you would be so kind as to inquire after a proper button for me.”
    Betsy sighed. Really, these Gentry. Why they couldn’t take care of themselves instead of always depending on other people to do it for them—
    She looked up just in time to glimpse the unmistakably grateful look Uncle Ned gave to Sir Charles, and the naked loss in her mother’s tear-filled eyes. Her heart stopped, and she forgot all about her hoop and the proper button for Sir Charles’s coat.

6
    Riddle me, riddle me, rot-tot-tote!
    A little wee man, in a red red coat!
    A staff in his hand, and a stone in his throat;
    If you’ll tell me this riddle, I’ll give you a groat.
    â€”BEATRIX POTTER
The Tale of Squirrel Nutkin
    T he McGregors’ cottage was painted a faded pink and heavily thatched, with yarrow growing against the wall, and lavender and rosemary blooming, and roses climbing in great masses over the brick wall. On the stoop in front of the door sat a pair of muddy boots, heavily hobnailed and with a patch on one instep, and beside the door, leaning against the plaster wall, was a stout staff. McGregor, Charles deduced, was at home.
    The door stood ajar, as most cottage doors did when the weather was fine, and Edward Laken raised his hand to it. When he had knocked twice, Mrs. McGregor opened it wide.
    â€œI tol’ ye,” she said with asperity, as if the affair in the back garden had been their fault. “He’s that put out.” She lowered her voice. “An’ mind wot ye say t’him. He’s a ogre when he’s crossed.” She stepped back and allowed them to enter the flagstoned passage, at one side of which ascended an uncarpeted stair. On the other was a small, neat sitting room with a woven rush mat on the stone floor. Behind that was the kitchen, where the redoubtable McGregor, an undersized, ferret-faced man with thick eyebrows and a surly mouth half-hidden in wire whiskers, sat with both elbows on the table, devouring a thick slice of crusty bread and cheese.
    â€œGood even’ to you, sir,” Edward said.
    McGregor grunted, reached for a china mug, and swallowed a mouthful of tea.
    â€œAbout this business in the garden,” Edward began.
    â€œDon’t know nothin’ ’bout it.” McGregor’s voice was rough and gravelly. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Cheese, Tildy.”
    Mrs. McGregor fetched cheese from a shelf and sliced it. Edward said, “We’re curious about your gun.”
    â€œShu’n’t wonder,” McGregor said shortly. “There ’tips.” He gestured with his head. Charles turned to look. A shotgun was leaning against the wall beside the window.
    â€œIs that your only gun?” Edward asked.
    McGregor’s “Sart’nly” was emphatic. “ ’Tis all I need f’r varmints ’n’ such-like.”
    Mrs. McGregor paused in her slicing. “Don’t fergit Tommy’s pistols,” she offered. “Tommy’s me brother,” she added helpfully to Edward. “We bin keepin’ ’em f’r him.”
    Mr. McGregor said nothing, but his