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TWO LITTLE TRAVELLERS

A Story for Girls

by

RAY CUNNINGHAM

(FRANCES BROWNE ARTHUR)

Author of "For Gilbert's Sake," "John Carew's Daughter," &c., &c.







Thomas Nelson and Sons
London, Edinburgh, and New York
1903




    "Oh! there's nothing on earth half so holy
    As the innocent heart of a child."

        CHARLES DICKENS.




    TO
    MY CHILDREN




CONTENTS.


        I. UNDER THE CEDAR TREE

       II. LEFT BEHIND!

      III. THE BABES IN THE WOOD

       IV. FAR, FAR AWAY!

        V. GONE AMISSING!

       VI. THE CRUISE OF H.M.S. "DREADNOUGHT"

      VII. HILL DIFFICULTY

     VIII. BAMBO AND BRUNO

       IX. THE NEXT MORNING

        X. THE HAPPY LAND

       XI. A SUDDEN FLIGHT

      XII. FOLLOWED BY THE ENEMY

     XIII. A TERRIBLE FRIGHT

      XIV. AT EVENING TIME

       XV. BAMBO'S FRIEND

      XVI. COMING AND GOING

     XVII. ADIEU!




TWO LITTLE TRAVELLERS.




CHAPTER I.

UNDER THE CEDAR TREE.

    "There are twelve months throughout the year,
      From January to December,
    And the primest month of all the twelve
      Is the merry month of September!
          Then apples so red
          Hang overhead,
          And nuts, ripe-brown,
          Come showering down
      In the bountiful days of September!"

                                     MARY HOWITT.


It was pleasant under the shade of the huge cedar tree on the lawn at
Firgrove that golden Sunday afternoon. It was autumn, really and truly,
going by the calendar at the back of the small cat-eared diary which
Darby had coaxed from his father and always carried in his pocket. Yet
the sunshine was so bright and warm, the birds were singing so joyously
in the thickets, the rooks cawed so loudly as they wheeled and circled
like a dense black battalion at drill up against the cloudless blue of
the sky, that it was hard to believe the diary people had not made a
mistake in their reckonings or stupidly mixed their dates.

Indeed, one would have been quite sure they had done something of the
sort, and that it was still summer, only for the unmistakable signs and
tokens of harvest that everywhere met the eye. In the fields on the
hillside sloping up to meet the sky there were stooks of rich, ripe,
yellow grain still standing, waiting to be carted home to Mr. Grey's
stackyard, and there heaped into high domed castles round which children
loved to play or linger silently, watching the sleek dun mice that
darted so swiftly hither and thither, planning for themselves such
glorious games in and out and round about their well-stocked
store-houses amongst the crisp, rustling corn. Red-cheeked apples,
dark-skinned winter pears ripened slowly on the orchard trees. Big
bronze plums and late Victorias mellowed against the garden wall. And
now and then when a breeze, gentle as the flutter of a fairy's wing,
fanned the branches of the stately spreading lime tree that was comrade
of the shining cedar on the lawn, there dropped on the grass border
beside the tall hollyhocks a pale dry leaf, falling softly to the earth
from which it grew, silently as a tired bird sinks to her nest amongst
the clover blooms of summer.

On a wide wooden seat beneath the sheltering branches of the cedar tree
Captain Dene sat with his little ones close beside him. They were very
close to him indeed--as close as they could come: for Darby was bunched
up on the bench, legs and all, with his head tucked under his father's
elbow; while Joan was folded in his arms so tightly that the golden
tangle of her shining curls mingled with the deeper hue of the dark
cropped head which bent so lovingly over hers.

And no wonder that those three cuddled so close together this balmy
September afternoon. No wonder they looked sad in spite of the sunbeams
that boldly forced their way through the spikes on the cedar branches in
long, slanting shafts of light that rested lovingly on Joan's burnished
hair like the tender touch of caressing fingers. And no wonder, either,
if they were all three silent--not because there was nothing to say, but
because there were so many things they wanted to speak about, and yet
the words would not come. For on the morrow, early in the morning, at
day-dawn even, when the birds should be yet only half awake in their
nests, while Darby and Joan should be still sleeping in their cribs
disturbed by neither dream nor fear, their father was to leave them. He
must be up and away to join the company of brave fellows who called him
captain, and with them go aboard the big transport ship that even then
was lying at anchor in Southampton Water, waiting to carry them, with
many of their comrades, away, away--far, far away!--over the sweeping,
separating sea, to fight for their beloved Queen and country amidst
perils and privations on the wide, lonely veldts of South Africa.

How were they to live without him--the dear, darling daddy who had been
to them father and mother for almost a year now? And that is a long time
to little children, a large slice from the lives of such mites as Joan
and Darby Dene. Darby was not quite seven, with thick, short brown hair
and great gray eyes. Joan was five. Her hair was long and curly; it had
a funny trick of falling over her face in golden tangles, from which her
eyes, velvety as the heart of a pansy, blinked out solemnly like stars
from the purple darkness of a summer night: while her cheeks were
exactly the colour of the China roses that bloomed so freely, month in
month out, about the porch at Grannie Dene's front door.

Their names were not really Darby and Joan. They had been baptized Guy
and Doris; but their father had begun to call them Darby and Joan when
they were tiny toddlers, just for fun, because they were such devoted
chums; and after a time nearly every one called them by these names,
even their mother. Only grannie, who was very much of an invalid, and
whom in consequence they did not often visit, kept to Guy and Doris. But
for that they should soon have forgotten that these charming names were
actually theirs.

Their mother had died about nine months previously, just before
Christmas, shortly after the birth of baby Eric, the wee, fragile
brother whom Perry, the careful, kindly nurse, seemed always hushing to
sleep and rarely permitted the others to touch. Already Joan had ceased
to remember her mother, except at odd times, and in a hazy sort of
fashion; and to Darby it appeared quite a great while since that day
when he had heard the servants say to each other that their mistress was
dead.

It was a bright, crisp winter day outside--Darby knew, because he had
been sliding on the pond behind the barrack wall quite early after
breakfast--but inside the house it was chill and gloomy; for all the
blinds were down, and every room seemed strange and still.

At twilight their father came up to the nursery. He stood for a minute
or two looking down upon Joan lying asleep in her crib. Then he took
Darby in his arms, and drawing a low chair close to the window, together
they sat there until from the fleckless blue of the frosty sky the
little stars shone out one by one, twinkling soft bright eyes towards
Darby as if to say, "Good-night, you poor little motherless lamb! Go to
bed; sleep sound, and we shall watch your pillow the whole night
through."

But these memories were nearly a year old now. Already they were
becoming less vivid in Darby's mind, and being gradually pushed aside in
order to leave room in the storehouse for more recent impressions. Many
things had happened since then. Baby Eric had grown from a tiny pink
morsel into quite an armful, Nurse Perry declared, and a heavy handful
as well, whatever that meant. They had dwelt in different places, too,
during that time; because when the regiment moved the officers also
moved, and Captain Dene kept his motherless children as constantly with
him as it was possible to do. Recently, however, it had become no longer
possible--quite impossible, in fact--for Captain Dene's company was
under orders for active service in South Africa. Darby and Joan would
have been more than willing to accompany their father to the ends of the
earth, riding at the tail of a baggage-wagon, seated on a gun-carriage,
or perched on the hump of a camel. But Captain Dene only smiled and
shook his head at the eager little ones. Then he made for them the best
arrangement that circumstances permitted.

In consequence, just the previous Thursday he had brought his three
children, with Perry their nurse, to Firgrove, where they were to remain
during his absence, under the care and guardianship of his own two
aunts, the Misses Turner.

Aunt Catharine and Auntie Alice, as Darby and Joan were told to call the
maiden ladies (who in the children's eyes looked old enough to be the
grandmothers of all the young folks in the neighbourhood around their
country home), were sisters of Captain Dene's mother. They were not
really old at all, although Aunt Catharine's thick black hair was shaded
by a lace cap, and in Auntie Alice's nut-brown waves there were streaks
of silver that lent a chastened charm to her faded face. Firgrove was
their birthplace, and there in his boyhood Captain Dene had spent many a
happy holiday.

Auntie Alice was a little, slender body, whose gentle voice and quiet
ways just matched her meek brown eyes; while Aunt Catharine was a tall
and stately lady, with a prim, severe manner, and a fixed belief in the
natural naughtiness of all children, whom she kept down accordingly. And
although he knew how truly good and kind she was at heart, Captain Dene
wondered somewhat anxiously how Darby's unbroken spirit would bear the
curb of such strict, stern rule. But there was Auntie Alice as well, and
Captain Dene smiled as he remembered how she had petted and indulged him
in his juvenile days. The aunts between them, like John Gilpin's
bottles, would keep the balance true. The children would be all right.
Besides, he did not expect to be very long away--six months or a year at
most. The time would soon pass, and when he came home from Africa he
would have his little ones to live with him again, until Darby should be
old enough for school at any rate.




CHAPTER II.

LEFT BEHIND!

    "If I could but wake and find it a dream!
    But I can't--oh, what shall I do?
    It's only the good things that change and seem,
    The bad ones are always true.
    And miracles never happen now,
    And the fairies all are fled;
    And mother's away, and the world somehow
    Is dark--and Flopsy's dead!"

                             M. A. WOODS.


The group on the lawn had been silent for a long time--far too long,
thought Darby, who liked to use his tongue freely as well as his sturdy
little legs.

At length Joan raised her head from its resting-place on her father's
shoulder, and flinging her arms round his neck, she burst into a storm
of sobs.

"Daddy, daddy!" she cried, "we can't do wifout you. Don't go away and
leave me and Darby all alone!"

"I must go, my pet," replied Captain Dene gravely. "I am a soldier,
dear, and soldiers must obey orders. Besides, I am not leaving you
alone. You shall have the aunts to take care of you. They will know
better how to look after a wee girlie than a great blundering fellow
like father."

"You isn't a great blun'rin' fellow; you's my own dearest, sweetest
daddy!" declared Joan warmly. "And I doesn't want no aunties. Auntie
Alice is nice, but we doesn't love Aunt Catharine one teeny-weeny
bit.--Sure we doesn't, Darby?"

"Joan!" exclaimed Darby in a shocked tone, although he smiled as he
peeped in the direction of the front door, for already he had learned
that Aunt Catharine had a trick of pouncing upon him when he least
expected. It was embarrassing, to say the least of it, and Darby
disliked it greatly.

Captain Dene pulled at his moustache as though puzzled how to act. He
quite understood how little there was about his aunt's grim presence to
attract a soft little creature like Joan--for a while at least. After a
time he knew things would be on a freer footing between them; therefore
he thought it better to take no notice of his small daughter's
frankly-spoken sentiments, and after a pause he said,--

"You are forgetting Eric, surely. He will soon be old enough to play
with you, and you must be very gentle with him, you know."

"Baby!" cried Joan in fine scorn. "Why, how could we play wif him? he
doesn't know no games."

"I think you needn't count much on Eric, father," put in Darby wisely;
"he's nearly always sleeping or crying, and nurse hardly ever lets us
touch him. It's because he's delikid, she says. So when you're away
there'll just be Joan and me," added the little lad sorrowfully.

Suddenly Joan spoke again, asking a question that awoke afresh the pain
at her father's heart--a pain so sharp, so deep-seated as to be at times
almost unbearable.

"When you have to go away in the big ship wif the solgers, why did
mamsie not stay and take care of us? Other chil'ens has nice lovely
muvers. Why have we none, daddy?"

Why, ah, why?

"Does she not love us any more, father?" whispered Darby, in broken,
quivering tones--Darby, who remembered his fair young mother as one
remembers a pleasing dream.

"Will she never come back no more? Shall we not see her again--never,
never?" asked Joan shrilly.

"Listen to me, my darlings," said Captain Dene, in a solemn, earnest
voice, after a pause, during which he wondered how he should answer his
children's questions. "Mother has gone to live with God in heaven. Her
body was tired and worn out, and in a way it had grown too small for the
spirit within. And just as you leave off wearing your garments when they
grow shabby or small, and father provides you with new things, so mother
has left her weary, frail body behind and gone to God, the great and
loving Father of all, where she shall be clothed anew."

"But wasn't she put in the ground, father?" asked Darby the doubting. "I
'member quite well seeing a big, long box with brass handles and flowers
and wreaths and things, and nurse and Hughes said it was mother."

"You silly!" struck in Joan sharply. "That wasn't _weally_ muver; it was
only the bit of her that used to be tired and sick and have headiks. But
the thinkin' place and the part of her that used to say 'Joan, darlin','
and 'Darby, my son,' in such a cuddlin' kind of voice, and--and--why,
just all the lovin' bit of mamsie is up in heaven!--Isn't I correc',
daddy?" she demanded confidently.

"Quite correct, dear," replied the father, fondly kissing the
flower-like face upturned to his.

"And will we ever see her again?" asked Darby, who was feeling somewhat
snubbed. "You are not telling us that, father, and that's what I want
most partikler to know," he added, with a pathetic sigh, behind which
there lay a whole world of longing.

"Yes, my boy," answered Captain Dene promptly; "but not here! You shall
never see her again in the house or about the garden, at prayer-time or
for good-night. Yet she has merely gone out of our sight; she is often
with us, I believe, although we cannot see her. And by-and-by, I do not
know when or how soon," he added, thinking of the cruel warfare in which
he was about to take his share, "if you try to be brave and true, and
kind and loving to every one, you also shall go to dwell with God in
that happy, beautiful home where mother waits to clasp her dear ones
again in an embrace from which they shall never be separated."

Darby's eyes were raised to the sky with an expression so rapt, so
exalted, so pure, as if he were already beholding the glories of the
heavenly land. But Joan had still some more questions to ask.

"Will God--or wouldn't it be politer to say Mr. God? No?" as her father
shook his head. "Well, will He send an angel to fetch us to heaven when
He wants us?"

"Yes, dear; and when His messenger comes for us we must make no delay,"
replied Captain Dene softly.

"And will He let me take Miss Carolina, my dolly, wif me, and the
pussies?" queried Joan eagerly.

"Well, no, I hardly think so," said her father, with a sympathetic
smile, for he understood perfectly how hard it is this leaving behind of
friends and possessions. Did not the Master Himself foresee the trial
when He enjoined His followers, "Lay not up for yourselves treasures
upon earth"?

"But Jesus will give you something far better than toys or kittens, my
darling," continued Captain Dene--"more beautiful than I can either
imagine or describe. There will be pleasures of which you shall never
weary."

Joan thought hard for a minute, with a pucker in her white brow. Then
she slid from her father's knee and snatched up a shabby, battered doll
that was lying on the grass beside the bench, and clasping it tightly
to her breast, she delivered her decision,--

"I doesn't want no new fings. I wants my sweet Miss Carolina and the
pussies. So please tell dear Lord Jesus that He needn't trouble to get
anyfing ready, 'cause Joan isn't comin'."

The father gently stroked his little daughter's hair, but he said
nothing. What if God's last message to him were to come through the
muzzle of a Mauser rifle? Should it find him any more willing to leave
his motherless babes behind than was Joan to forsake her favourites?

"Now, chicks," he resumed, trying hard to speak cheerfully, "there is
Aunt Catharine at the door. It is your tea-time, I expect, and
children's bedtime comes early at Firgrove, as I know," he added,
smiling into Darby's wistful wee face. "But before you go in I want you
to sing me something that I shall think of when I am far away."

And in their clear, piping treble, with now and again a deeper note from
their father to carry them on, the little ones sang a favourite hymn,
the key-note of which, so to speak, dwelt with Captain Dene during many
a weary day and sleepless night,--

    "Ever journeying onward,
      Guided by a star."

Early next morning Darby had a queer dream. He dreamt that his father
came to his bedside, bent down, and kissed him repeatedly.

Was it a dream? Darby wondered, as he slowly awoke, sat up in bed, and
rubbed his eyes. Then suddenly he remembered that this was the day the
dear daddy was to leave them; or what if he were already gone!

Daylight had not yet come, but from a table in the far corner of the
nursery the night-lamp still glimmered faintly. Darby sprang to the
floor, calling loudly on Joan to come quick--quick. Together they
trotted downstairs. The breakfast-room was empty. From the drawing-room,
whither she had gone to have a good cry, came Auntie Alice, with tears
running down her cheeks, while close behind her sailed Aunt Catharine.
She was wrapped in a big, soft white shawl, and there was a curious
redness round her eyes, as if she had a cold in her head. But father was
not to be seen!

"You poor dears!" murmured Auntie Alice, throwing tender arms around
their little white-gowned forms.

"Who allowed you to come downstairs at this time in the morning?"
demanded Aunt Catharine, eyeing the pair severely over the rims of her
spectacles; "and in your night-clothes, too! 'Pon my word!"

Then Darby knew that his dream had been no dream, but a sad reality, and
father was, in very truth, gone! So drawing Joan along with him
up-stairs, they both cuddled into Darby's bed, where, clasped in each
other's arms, they sobbed themselves to sleep again.

       *       *       *       *       *

Firgrove was a charming old place. It had belonged to the Turners for
generations; but as Aunt Catharine and Auntie Alice were the last of the
family, after them it would come to Captain Dene. The house had
originally been a square eight-roomed cottage, built of plain gray
stone; but one Turner after another had, either for convenience or
display, added a wing here, a story there, until it had been turned into
a handsome, roomy residence. From the outside it looked rather
picturesque, with windows framed in ivy, clematis and wistaria peeping
out of the most unexpected places, chimney-stalks shooting up from the
least likely corners. Inside, the same surprises awaited one. No two
rooms were similar in size, scarcely any exactly the same in shape.
There were passages here, recesses there; steps leading down to this
apartment, up to that; with curtained doors and draperies in such
abundance that the children found within their shelter the most
delightful hiding-places imaginable. And many a romp and game they had,
in which once in a while Auntie Alice joined, when Aunt Catharine was
not anywhere about to be disturbed by the noise or shocked at her
sister's levity.

Out of doors there were other delights which Darby and Joan at first
felt they could never exhaust. In the stable Billy, the fat pony,
munched and snoozed every day and all day long, except when occasionally
he was harnessed into the basket-carriage to take the aunties for a
drive, or ambled into the meadow, where Strawberry and Daisy, the
meek-eyed Alderney cows, browsed at will over the sweet, juicy
after-grass. There were big, soft-breasted Aylesbury ducks on the pond,
fowls in the yard, pigeons in the dovecot so tame that they would perch
on Auntie Alice's shoulder and peck the grains of corn from between her
lips; and up in the loft above the stable there lived a cat, called
Impy, who was the proud and watchful mother of three dear little
kittens, as black, as soft, as sleek as herself.

Behind the house was the garden, a peaceful old-world spot, with its
prim gravelled paths, boxwood borders, holly hedges, and wealth of
vegetables, fruit, and flowers. There Green, the deaf old gardener,
reigned supreme, not always paying heed to Aunt Catharine herself. And
there also, in a sheltered corner, stood Auntie Alice's beehives, around
which the small, busy brown bees buzzed and droned from dawn till dark,
laying up their stores of rich golden honey that was to supply the
little ones with many a toothsome morsel. Then there was the lawn with
its velvety sward, spreading shrubs, and stately cedar; and at the back
of the buildings, beyond the garden to the right, sloped the fields of
Copsley Farm; while to the left, lying in a gentle hollow, there uprose
the dark massed pines of Copsley Wood.

Darby and Joan were not allowed to go beyond the boundaries of Firgrove
alone or without special permission, but within their limits they
wandered about free as air. It was their father's express wish that they
should not be molly-coddled in any way, and, indeed, nurse had little
leisure to look after them. Her time was chiefly occupied with baby
Eric, who, although improving, was still delicate and fretful, and
seemed to find the difficulty of cutting his teeth, and life in general,
almost too much for him. Aunt Catharine's notion of the needs of
children began and ended with giving them plenty of plain, wholesome
food, seeing that they went early to bed, were properly clothed, and
knew their Catechism thoroughly. She instructed Darby and Joan for an
hour each morning in the mysteries of reading, writing, and counting.
She drilled them most conscientiously in the commandments, and always
with the "forbiddens" attached. She hedged them about with "don'ts", and
believed she was teaching them obedience. And when the tasks were done,
and the books put away for the day, it would have been hard to say
whether the teacher or the taught uttered the heartier thanksgiving.
Then, believing that she had done everything that duty demanded of her,
Aunt Catharine felt herself free to attend to her prize poultry, her
poor women, and parish meetings.

Auntie Alice loved the little ones dearly. She enjoyed their chatter and
a romp with them now and again. But she had not been used to children;
she was actually shy of them! She fancied they might be happier without
her, so she kept mostly to the company of her piano, her books, and her
bees, and the little people were left very much to their own devices.

As long as the weather was fine enough they almost lived out of doors,
and were perfectly happy; but when it "broke," as country folks
say--when the heavy autumn rain beat against the nursery window, and the
wind shook and swayed the cedar tree on the lawn until it sighed and
moaned as if in sorrow for the death of summer--then they longed for the
dear, loving daddy with a longing that was almost pain! They had letters
from him as often as was possible. Darby wrote in reply, and Joan
covered a piece of paper with pot-hangers, with a whole string of
odd-looking blots at the end, which she said were kisses and her message
for daddy. Letter-writing, however, especially if one does not write
easily, is but a poor substitute for speech. It did not seem to bring
their father close to them as he came in conversation.

And so it happened, exactly as Darby had foreseen, that now since he was
gone there were just the two of them left--Darby and Joan!




CHAPTER III.

THE BABES IN THE WOOD.

    "'What are you singing of, soft and mild,
      Green leaves, waving your gentle hands?
    Is it a song for a little child,
      Or a song God only understands?'

    Answered the green leaves, soft and mild,
      Whispered the green leaves, soft and clear,--
    'It is a song for every child,
      It is a song God loves to hear;
    It is the only song we know,
      We never question how or why.
    'Tis not a song of fear or woe,
      A song of regret that we must die;
    Ever at morn and at eventide
      This is our song in the deep old wood,--
    "Earth is beautiful, heaven is wide;
      And we are happy, for God is good!"'"

                               F. E. WEATHERLY.


"Have you anything for us to do, Auntie Alice?" said Darby Dene one day,
after he had watched Aunt Catharine safely into the fowl-house to have a
look at her Brahmas.

It was a still, bright afternoon in October, when the ripe apples were
dropping from the trees in the garden, and up at Copsley Farm Mrs.
Grey's turkeys wandered at will over the stubble whence the grain had
all been carted and built into stacks beside the farmyard.

"Do say that you can think of something, please," pleaded the boy--"a
message or anything. We are so tired of the garden, and the lawn, and
the swing, and--and--everything.--Aren't we, Joan?"

"Yes, werry, werry tired," agreed Joan with ready assent. She always did
agree with everything that Darby said. He was her model, her hero, who,
in Joan's eyes, could do no wrong.

"I'm afraid I cannot invent or suggest any fresh occupation for you just
now," answered Auntie Alice, smiling down into the eager upturned faces
beside her knee. "Would you not run away and have a romp with pussy? she
is frolicking with her kittens in the garden, quite close to the
tool-house."

"We were playing with pussy for ever so long, and look there!" said
Darby, holding up for his aunt's inspection one small brown and not
over-clean hand. Across the back of it ran a long, straight scratch from
which the blood was slowly oozing. "That's what pussy did! That's why
we left her, and why we don't want to go back to the garden."

Darby's tone was so rueful, his expression one of such patient
forbearance towards base treachery, that his aunt laughed outright. Yet
she kissed the wounded hand again and again, whispering gently the
while,--

"Poor Darby! poor little hand! and poor pussy too!" she added below her
breath. For she guessed correctly that pussy--who was in general a
long-suffering animal--must have been sorely beset when she used her
claws in defence of herself or the rights of her family.

"If you really haven't an errand, won't you just invent one, auntie?"
persisted Darby. Then suddenly he cried, while his face beamed with the
happiness of the thought that had struck him, "May we go up to the farm
and see Mrs. Grey? Oh, do say 'yes,' Auntie Alice!"

"Well, I'm sure I don't know. Perhaps we should hear what Aunt Catharine
thinks. Still, I suppose you might," decided Auntie Alice, her
hesitation overcome by the pleading look in Darby's eyes.

"Oh, thank you, thank you, dear Auntie Alice!" said both children in a
breath, flinging themselves in ecstasy upon their aunt. She, however,
did not like to have her delicate ribbons crumpled by smudgy, sticky
little hands; so she gently withdrew herself from their embrace, shaking
a warning finger playfully at the pair as she gave them a caution,--

"You must not stay too long or tease Mrs. Grey, either of you."

"We shan't stay very long," promised Darby; "and Mrs. Grey says we never
tease her."

"Mrs. Grey hasn't got no chil'ens of her own to play wif and 'muse her,
and that's why she likes Darby and me to go and talk to her whiles,"
explained Joan sagely, looking up at her aunt through the mop of golden
curls which shaded her big blue eyes.

"Is that the reason? Well, since you are going, you might just bring
those Cochin eggs with you that Mrs. Grey promised us. Your aunt
Catharine was speaking about them a little ago. Wait a minute, and I'll
hear what she says," and Auntie Alice made as if she would follow her
sister to the fowl-house.

"Oh, please don't!" cried Darby wildly, clutching with both hands at his
aunt's gown in order to stay her steps. "She'll be sure not to let us.
She'll ask if we've learned our Catechism, and send us to wash our hands
or change our clothes, or--or _something_. You know how she does, Auntie
Alice!"

Yes, Alice Turner knew her elder sister's little way very well indeed,
and because of this she yielded to Darby's importunity.

"Dear, dear, what a droll boy you are!" and by the way she spoke the
youngsters knew that they had won their way. "Off with you both, then,
quick! Take my white basket out of the breakfast-room, and see that you
carry the eggs carefully, or I'm afraid we shall all get into trouble."

"Which way shall we go?" asked Darby, gleefully swinging the basket
about his head. "May we go through the fields, Auntie Alice? The ground
is quite dry to-day, and the path is ever so much nicer than the road
past Copsley Wood."

"You may go through the fields, dear; but come back by the road. You
might break the eggs if you were to return the field way; there are so
many stiles to climb. And listen to me, chickabiddies," continued Auntie
Alice earnestly. "You must not on any account go into the wood; it is
not a safe place for children."

"Why?" demanded Darby in astonishment, for he had little or no fear of
any living thing--man or beast.

"I need not detain you now, dear, to explain further than to say that
there are sometimes rough people about who might think it rather funny
to behave rudely to unprotected little children."

"Don't you know there's bears in Copsley Wood, and lions and tigers and
effelants, and--and--oh, heaps of drefful fings!" explained Joan, as
glibly as if she had in person penetrated the many mysteries that--to
her infant mind--were hidden in the cool, dark depths of the old pine
wood.

"Nonsense!" and Darby smiled in scorn of his sister's ignorance.--"Do
you hear her, Auntie Alice?--Why, you little goose, don't you know that
there aren't any bears, or lions, or tigers, or elephants in this
country? If we were in a lonely part of Africa, we might see some; but
there's only rabbits and squirrels and perhaps wild cats in Copsley
Wood.--Isn't she a silly, Auntie Alice?"

"I'm not a silly!" said Joan stoutly.--"Sure I isn't, Auntie Alice?"

"No, child; and you are quite right to be shy of the wood," answered her
aunt gravely. "And now, if you want to go to the farm to-day, you had
better be off. I think I hear Aunt Catharine coming!"

Her caution came too late, however, for in another instant Aunt
Catharine was upon them.

"What is it now?" she demanded, glancing from one to another of the
guilty-looking group.--"What are you doing with that basket, Darby?"

"I--we--Joan and me were going up to the farm to see Mrs. Grey,"
faltered Darby. "And please, please, Aunt Catharine, don't say we aren't
to get!"

"We's goin' to bring your Cochin eggs," added Joan sweetly.

"I hope you won't mind, sister," struck in Auntie Alice, in her soft,
timid voice, "but I gave them leave to go. And I thought they might as
well fetch the eggs when they are coming back."

"Alice Turner! when do you mean to grow up?" exclaimed Aunt Catharine,
in withering accents. "Is it that boy you expect to carry a basket of
eggs? Those fidgets! Why, they'll leave the half of them on the road or
sit on them by the way!"

"We willn't sit on them," said Joan stoutly. "Jetty shall sit on them,
and they'll turn into dear, soft, fluffy chickens! Willn't they, Aunt
Catharine?"

Aunt Catharine did not answer directly, but she looked as if she did
not feel quite so sure of results as Joan.

"We'll be very, very careful, indeed!" promised Darby earnestly; and
Joan echoed likewise, "Werry, werry careful!"

"Well, well; since your Auntie Alice has already given permission, I
shall not prevent you, and I must admit I am in a hurry for the eggs.
Jetty is making a terrible to-do over a solitary china one in her nest.
But if they are broken or shaken--"

There Aunt Catharine paused; yet her listeners perfectly understood what
she did not say.

"And remember, children, what has been so often said to you about
Copsley Wood. You are not to go there on any pretext whatever! Do you
understand?"

"Yes, Aunt Catharine; and we've promised Auntie Alice already," replied
Darby meekly.

"Very well; see that you keep your promise, my boy. You always say that
you forgot when you have been disobedient, but you are both old enough
to do as you are told. And I should not be doing my duty if I did not
try to teach you," added Aunt Catharine significantly, as she bent and
kissed the little ones good-bye.

"And that just means that she'll punish us badly the next time we're
naughty," explained Darby to Joan, as they clambered over the stile at
the foot of Mr. Grey's turnip field. "Well, I shouldn't mind greatly if
it wasn't putting to bed. I do hate going to bed; don't you, Joan?"

"Yes, werry much; for they're always sure to come for us when we'se not
ready, nurse or Aunt Catharine! They seem to know 'zactly when we're in
the middle of somefin' awful nice, and then they says, 'Bedtime,
chil'ens!' Oh, it's just ho'wid!"

Joan puckered up her pretty face so comically in imitation of nurse's
worried expression, and mimicked Aunt Catharine's lofty tones so
cleverly, that Darby clapped his hands in delight and admiration. Then
they raced each other along the breezy headland, across the
sweet-smelling stubble field, through the stackyard and the orchard,
until, flushed and breathless, they stood beside the mistress in the
cool, red-tiled dairy of Copsley Farm.

Mrs. Grey was always well pleased to see the little folks from Firgrove,
and made them warmly welcome; just as, in the long-ago days, she had
welcomed their father when he too found it a relief sometimes to slip
away from the prim precision of his aunts' establishment, and come
rushing up the hill to count the calves, tease the turkey-cock, ride the
donkey, plague the maids, and generally enjoy himself to his heart's
content. She dearly loved children although, as Joan said, she had none
of her own; and the day always seemed brighter to her when Darby and
Joan came flying over the fields to pay her one of their frequent
visits.

There was a new donkey at the farm in those days, and as neither of the
children was particular about a saddle, they rode him in turn until
Neddy rose in revolt--actually, with his heels in the air!--or lay down,
which was more hopeless still; for once he did that they knew that he,
for one, had frolicked enough, that day, at any rate. But there were
other things. They played hide-and-seek round the stacks with Scott the
huge collie, who was so gentle that he would allow Joan to put her
fingers in his eyes or pull his big bushy tail. They gathered apples in
the orchard, hazel nuts in the copse, late blackberries from the hedge
at the back of the stackyard; and they watched the pigs at their
afternoon meal until Joan turned away in disgust, declaring that "the
dirty fings should be teached better manners, and made to sup their
pow'idge wif a spoon!"

Then, when the sun was sinking low in the west, and they had feasted to
their complete satisfaction on all the dainties that their hostess loved
to set before them, it was time to return to Firgrove.

Mrs. Grey put into Darby's hand the shallow basket of round brown eggs,
with two tiny white ones on the top for themselves that had been laid by
Specky, the lovely black-and-buff bantam. Then, with many kisses and
warnings to be careful, she set the happy pair upon their homeward way.

They took turns at carrying the basket, and paused now and again to peep
at their bantam eggs, not much bigger than marbles, and the others which
held the promise of such sweet baby Cochins within their smooth,
silk-lined shells.

"Oh, I am tired!" sighed Darby at length, when they were still only
half-way down the road, just passing by the entrance to the pine wood.
"Are you tired, Joan?"

"Yes," assented Joan promptly; "this basket's so heavy. Can't we rest
awhile after we pass the trees?"

"We shall rest here," said Darby decidedly; and suiting the action to
the word, he took the basket from his sister's hand, placed it carefully
on the roadside, and, with a deep breath of satisfaction, dropped on
the soft grass beside it, just where the path branched off the highway
into Copsley Wood.

"Darby!" cried Joan in remonstrance, "are you forgetting what you
promised Auntie Alice, and that Aunt Catharine said we wasn't to go into
the wood?"

"I'm not forgetting one bit," he replied loftily. "Sure, sitting here
isn't going into the wood, is it, Miss Joan? Besides, I don't believe
there's any bad people in it. They only want to frighten us," he
continued, in a grown-up sort of tone; and when Darby spoke like that,
Joan felt quite sure he knew what he was talking about--better even than
Aunt Catharine herself!

They sat still for a little while, resting on the soft, mossy grass,
listening to the song of the robins in the hedges, watching the snowy
sea-gulls that hovered about the tail of Mr. Grey's plough as it turned
the stubble into long, even furrows of dark, fresh-smelling soil.

Then a couple of rabbits darted by to their burrow in the wood; and at
the foot of a big beech tree growing close beside the children a whole
party of squirrels had gathered, nibbling hungrily at the nuts that were
scattered round its base.

The little ones hushed their chatter, afraid to breathe almost, lest
they should disturb the merry family meal.

By-and-by, however, Joan spoke, for she could not keep silent many
minutes at a time.

"I wish I had one of those dear pretty fings, Darby," she whispered.
"How sweet and soft it would be to love and stroke! far nicer than
pussy, for I don't think it would scratch. Look at their great bushy
tails!"

"Well, sit you still and mind the eggs, and I'll creep over ever so
softly and catch one for you," replied her brother under his breath,
only too willing, alas! to gratify her wish. "It'll be quite easy: just
one grab at its tail and there you are!"

"But, Darby, Aunt Catharine. What ever will she say? Darby!" cried Joan
in distress.

Darby was creeping on all-fours over the springy grass, and did not mind
her. Slowly, stealthily he went--near, nearer, and yet nearer the root
of the beech tree with every movement of his lithe, wriggling body. He
is now only a few feet from the squirrels, who seem not to notice the
intruder. He puts out his hand. He almost touches the smallest member of
the group, a bright-eyed, furry little fellow. Joan starts to her feet
in excitement. Darby does exactly as he had planned--makes a sudden
clutch at the coveted prize. The object of her desire is really within
her reach, Joan believes, and she shouts aloud in her delight. There is
a flash of bead-like eyes, a waving of plumy tails, a scurry of flying
feet, a chorus of queer, chattering cries, and, lo, the squirrels have
disappeared, some up one tree, some up another--all except one, the very
one which Darby desired to possess, and it scampered along the pathway,
seeming too frightened to know where it was going; and, without giving a
thought to the Cochin eggs, to Aunt Catharine, or to probable
consequences, away rushed Darby in hot pursuit, with Joan treading
closely on his heels.

Soon the squirrel found refuge in a lofty pine where, most probably,
some of its friends had their home, and the children halted to take
breath. Just at that instant, however, a frisky young rabbit started
from its hiding-place in a hole at their feet. Off it went, scampering
over the fallen fir needles that were spread so thickly like a soft
brown carpet over the ground. And away, too, Darby and Joan raced after
it, as quickly as they could thread their way through the trees,
following where in front the rabbit led the way, its stumpy whitish
tail turned up like a beckoning signal-flag. Still they struggled and
stumbled on and on, in and out, until they stopped for want of breath in
what seemed the very heart of the wood. Their prey had escaped into the
shelter of a burrow, and the hunters gazed blankly at the spot where it
had disappeared. Then they turned to each other in discomfiture and
disappointment. Afterwards they looked about them, and were filled with
confusion and affright, for the pathway was nowhere to be seen.

"The eggs, Darby!" cried Joan, suddenly conscious, now that the play was
played out, of what had been, what was, and what might be. "Let us go
back diwectly and get Aunt Catharine's basket of eggs."

"Yes, of course, that's what we shall do; but don't be in such a hurry.
You only confuse a fellow," answered Darby, trying to speak lightly,
although his lips were quivering. He had sought up and down, backwards,
forwards, and roundabout, but still could see neither track nor
footmark--just trees, tall trees everywhere, one seeming the exact
counterpart of the other.

Joan, however, was quick to catch his expression of bewilderment, which
so sadly belied his brave words, and she began to sob weakly. She
always cried easily, and seemed sometimes to enjoy it; at least Darby
thought so privately.

"Be quiet, can't you! There's nothing for you to cry about," he said, in
a tone of easy assurance; "at least not yet--not until after we get
home," he added comically. "I do hope Aunt Catharine will be in the
drawing-room, or out to dinner, or--or--something when we arrive. If she
sees us like this, she'll be certain sure to put us to bed at once,"
continued Darby, with sad conviction, glancing anxiously at his soiled
sailor suit, which a few hours before was white, his straw hat with the
brim dangling by a thread; and, worst of all, at Joan's torn pinafore,
scratched legs, and shoeless foot--for in the flurry and fervour of the
chase one small slipper had somehow been left behind.

Joan still sobbed.

"Hush, Joan! don't cry any more, like a good girl," said the little lad
soothingly. "We shall be sure to find the way out very soon now. We left
the basket at the edge of the wood; I don't think any one will have
taken it away. And when we get it, we shan't be hardly any time going
down the hill. We'll slip in softly, softly, and find Auntie Alice
first. We'll ask her to coax Aunt Catharine not to be too angry; and
perhaps, if we tell her we're sorry, she'll not punish us very badly. I
think we had better not say anything about forgetting this time; we'll
just be sorry right off."

Joan ceased crying. She dabbed her eyes with the corner of her soiled
pinafore until they smiled like violets new washed with dew; she wiped
the trickling tear-drops from her smudgy China rose cheeks until they
bloomed afresh.

Thus the brave boy soothed his small sister's terror, although his own
heart was heavy with fear; for the farther they walked the deeper they
seemed to go into the depths of the dark pine wood. And night was coming
on. In daytime, even, Copsley Wood was a shadowy place; but now, when
above the trees and beyond their margin twilight had fallen, it was
indeed a dark and lonesome spot. All around the pines rose straight and
tall, like gaunt giant forms flinging out long, skeleton arms eager to
infold them in a cruel clasp. Strange and stealthy sounds from bird and
beast came to their ears at intervals, while the unfamiliar music of
rustling branches and whispering leaves filled the souls of these two
little travellers with a feeling of awe and vague alarm. Nevertheless
they kept moving on, on; now stumbling over a fallen branch, again
shrinking in terror as a great soft owl flitted slowly by, or hooted
solemnly right above their heads.

At length Joan cried out that she could not walk another step. A sharp
stone had cut her poor little shoeless foot, and she was limping
painfully. She sank down on a smooth tree-stump, and Darby sat beside
her, allowing her to lean her drooping head against his shoulder.

"Are we lost, Darby?" she asked piteously. "Are we goin' to die here
like the babes in the wood? And will the robins come in the mornin' and
cover us up wif leaves?"

"No, no," answered Darby, shivering at the mere thought of such a
hurried burial, yet trying to speak cheerfully in spite of the tears in
his eyes, the lump in his throat. "When you are rested a bit we will go
on again. If you can't walk, perhaps I could carry you--a short
distance, anyway. Surely we shall soon find the path, or some one will
come to look for us," he added, feeling as if at that moment any one,
even Aunt Catharine herself, would be welcome.

"It's gettin' awful dark," sobbed Joan, in a choked, weak voice. "Why,
we can't see even a single star."

"We'd be all right if we could see anything," replied the boy ruefully.
"Maybe the moon will shine soon; then we'll find our way," he added,
still trying to cheer his little chum as best he could.

For a while they were silent. Joan was almost asleep, with her head
still resting on Darby's breast. None but the creatures of the wild were
near them; only the sounds of the night were in the air--those soft,
mysterious voices that whisper to the listening soul of the spirit world
which wraps so closely round the pure in heart.

But stay! Who dare disturb the sweetness of nature's symphony? Whose
stealthy steps are those that steal so cautiously over the tell-tale
twigs and withered bracken? What figures are they that crouch and slide
from tree to tree, then pause within half a dozen yards of the wandered
children, ready to pounce like cruel beasts upon their prey?

The shuffling noise attracted Darby's attention. He looked all about
him, but observed nothing unusual. He peered into the gathering gloom,
yet failed to see the ugly, red-haired man, the bold, black-browed woman
who glared at them from behind a screen of hazel bushes. And again he
settled himself comfortably on the moss-grown stump, and drew Joan's
head into an easier position against his shoulder.

He thought she was asleep, and was nearly over himself, when suddenly
she sat up and said eagerly,--

"Darby, I'se been finkin'. Don't you know in that nice hymn of ours--the
one we singed to daddy the Sunday before he goed away--there's somefin'
about bein' 'guided by a star'? P'raps if we was to sing it now God
would un'erstand, and send a star to show us the way out of the wood."

Darby hesitated.

"Well, I don't know; I'm not sure," he said at length. "Still, if you
think singing would make you feel better we might try it," he yielded.
"Yes, we'll do a verse, anyway. It'll be cheerier than praying--not so
much like as if we were going to bed. And it doesn't really matter which
we do; God will be sure to know 'zactly what we mean. Now, are you
ready? Come on!"

And there, in the depths of the forest that to these two babes was as
desolate, dark, and drear as any of which they had heard in fairy tale
or nursery rhyme, they raised their clear, tremulous voices in pathetic
appeal to that unseen Presence whom from their cradles they had been
taught to look upon as "our Father:"--

    "From the eastern mountains
      Pressing on they come,
    Wise men in their wisdom,
      To His humble home;
    Stirred by deep devotion,
      Hasting from afar,
    Ever journeying onward,
      Guided by a star."




CHAPTER IV.

FAR, FAR AWAY!

    "The leaves were reddening to their fall,
      'Coo!' said the gray doves, 'coo!'
    As they sunned themselves on the garden wall,
      And the swallows round them flew.
    'Whither away, sweet swallows?
      Coo!' said the gray doves, 'coo!'
    'Far from this land of ice and snow
    To a sunny southern clime we go,
    Where the sky is warm and bright and gay:
      Come with us, away, away!'"

                             F. E. WEATHERLY.


Just as they paused on the last note Joan uttered a scream of delight.

"Look, Darby, look!" she cried, clutching at her brother's arm. "The
star! the star! God has sended it soon, hasn't He? He must have been
listenin' close by when we sang. Auntie Alice says He is every place at
once."

"Where?" eagerly asked Darby, peering anxiously into the darkness, but
looking in the wrong direction.

"There--right behind you," replied Joan, pointing with her finger. "It's
comin' nearer and nearer. Don't you see it?"

Yes, sure enough there was moving slowly towards them, out of the
shadows, a small bright light not unlike the twinkle of a tiny star. It
came steadily on, then stopped, wavered, and was gone.

"Holloa! who's there? Speak up!" called out a loud, hearty voice.

Heavy footsteps followed the voice--footsteps that halted and stumbled
among the gnarled tree-roots and spreading branches, yet kept straight
on--and in another instant the kind, ruddy face of Mr. Grey looked down
upon the children.

"The babes in the wood, by George!" he ejaculated, at the same time
stooping to peer into the small, eager faces which were so fearlessly
upturned to meet his gaze. Then, when he made out who the
forlorn-looking little objects really were, he gave expression to his
astonishment in a long whistle, which frightened the birds in the trees,
the rabbits within their burrows, and the wicked man and woman behind
the hazel bushes, so that they cowered closer beneath the branches,
wishing themselves well out of the way of Farmer Grey's stout blackthorn
staff.

"Oh, it's you, Mr. Grey!" said Darby, with a curious catch in his voice
of glad relief to find that the face bending over them with such kindly,
quizzical scrutiny was not that of either gipsy, tramp, or poacher; for
in spite of his lofty scorn of unknown dangers, he had grown terribly
frightened for the possibilities which might lurk in the gloom of
Copsley Wood.

"Ay, it's me, an' no mistake," replied Mr. Grey readily. "But I'm
blessed if I knew ye at first in the dusk. 'They're tramps,' says I to
myself, 'or gipsy weans.' But then, when I got a good look at ye, I saw
that it was the little folks from Firgrove--Miss Turner's youngsters."

"We isn't Miss Turner's youngsters," struck in Joan stoutly; "we's
daddy's chil'ens."

"Ho, ho! so that's the way the wind blows!" laughed Mr. Grey. "Ye're a
pair o' pickles, anyway, an' no mistake! Who would think _ye_ were the
little angels whose pretty speeches my missis was divertin' me with all
the time I was at my tea! An' what may the two o' ye be doin' here in
the dark, I should like to know?" he demanded, in his big, gruff voice.

"We were lost--quite lost," cried Joan, "just like the babes in the
wood. If God hadn't sended you to find us, I s'pose robin redbreast
would have comed by-and-by to cover us up wif leaves and twigs and
fings."

"Tush!" and Mr. Grey laughed into the little girl's earnest face,
although he was moved at the thought of the anxiety and distress these
small creatures must have endured. "Lost! why, you're not more'n half a
dozen yards off the highroad."

"You must excuse Joan, please," put in Darby formally. "If she says
silly things sometimes, it's because she's so little. At least, that's
how I 'splains her to myself," he added.

Then he went on to give Mr. Grey a clear and full account of how and why
they were wandering at what was for them such an unusual hour in the
mazes of Copsley Wood--frankly owning up to more than his own share in
the escapade, casting not a shadow of blame upon his little sister.

"So, so!" said Mr. Grey, much amused by the lad's quaint manner and
grown-up air. "But I thought I heard some kind o' singin' as I came up
the hill. It was that fetched me into the wood. I had been down at
Firdale seein' about some seed-wheat for sowin' to-morrow, an' I was in
a hurry home."

"It was us you heard," Joan told him gravely. "We were askin' God to
send a star to show us the way out of the darkness."

"I'm afraid you'll certainly think my sister very childish," said Darby,
in an apologetic tone. "But you see, just when we had finished the first
verse of our hymn, a light really did shine. We didn't know at the time
that it was only the matches you were striking for your pipe, and Joan
thought (in fact, we _both_ thought--for a moment, you know) that God
had really sent a star to point us out the path, just as long ago He
guided the wise men to the place where the dear little baby Jesus lay."

For a space there was silence. Joan was almost asleep on her seat on the
tree-stump; not a quiver of the hazel bushes betrayed the presence of
the couple lurking there. And into the big farmer's eyes a sudden
moisture had sprung as he heard these little ones expressing in simple
speech their perfect confidence in the ability and readiness of their
heavenly Father to make good His own promise: "I will guide thee with
mine eye."

"That's right, my boy," spoke Mr. Grey at length, in deep, earnest
tones. "Always look out for God, an' you'll find Him close beside you,
in the darkest forest as well as in the starry sky. An' now we must be
movin', or the ladies'll be sendin' the police to look for the pair o'
ye.--Eh! Anybody there?" he shouted, as the sudden snapping of a twig
broke the stillness about them.

There was no answer, only the flutter of a belated bird as it failed to
find its accustomed perch among the pines, and the sighing of the wind
through the tree-tops overhead.

"Some beast, I expect, or a poacher, maybe," Mr. Grey muttered to
himself. Then he turned towards the children. "I was never reckoned much
o' _a star_," he said, with a chuckle of amusement, "but I guess I'll
manage to steer ye straight to Firgrove."

"Do you think you could carry Joan, please, Mr. Grey? She's not _very_
heavy; I sometimes carry her myself," added Darby, as if doing so were a
mere trifle instead of a feat of which he was privately proud. "She's
tired, I'm afraid.--Joan! Waken up! Aren't you tired?"

"Yes, werry, werry tired," assented Joan sleepily, as the farmer cradled
her comfortably in his strong arms; and with Darby holding hard by his
coat-tail they started.

"The eggs, Darby! Is you forgettin' Aunt Catharine's eggs, and the
bantam's too?" Joan cried, when they neared the opening in the wood.

Outside the fringe of dark trees twilight still lingered, and there,
just where Darby had set it down, was the basket, safe and sound.

With a whoop of delight at the welcome sight of the basket--for its
possible loss had lain heavily on his tender conscience--Darby sprang
forward to seize it. But in the dusk he did not notice a long, twisted
tree-root that straggled between him and his desire. His toe caught in
it; he suddenly tripped, swayed, and fell flat forward, crunching right
smash down into the shallow basket of smooth brown Cochin eggs.

"Whoa, there! steady, my man!" called the farmer, vainly struggling to
suppress his amusement at sight of Darby's deplorable and moist
condition. "You forget that you've a heavier seat on the eggs than a
hen, young sir, an' you must sit down easy."

A sharp sob, however, and the smothered cry of "The bantams! we're
bantams!" that burst from the little creature in his arms, indicated
that what was a joke to him was a catastrophe to the children, and that
his mirth was ill-timed and unseemly.

"Never mind, sonny," he added, in a soothing tone; "just tell the
ladies when you get home that it was all an accident. Here, rub down
your clothes wi' this wisp o' grass, an' I'll see if my missis can't
coax them Cochins to lay some more eggs between this an' Christmas."

Then, with Joan cuddled cosily against his broad shoulder, and Darby's
small hand clinging closely to his, the party set off down the winding
road towards Firgrove.

At the same time two figures raised themselves from their cramped
position behind the hazel thicket. The man stretched himself, hitched up
on his shoulder a bag, from which peeped the tail of a pheasant and the
paw of a rabbit, while he muttered savagely and shook his fist in the
direction of the retreating farmer.

"Spoiled yer little game, did he?" and the dark-eyed woman laughed
wickedly as she rearranged the faded scarlet shawl more closely round
her shoulders. "Well, better luck next time, Joe my dear," she added
airily.

"Shut up!" said the gentleman called Joe, with a heavy scowl. "It's kids
like they I've been lookin' out for this many a day, an' I'll have them
yet," he growled, "as sure as yer name's Moll! See if I don't! Come on!"
And in another moment they were not to be seen, they had plunged into
the heart of Copsley Wood.

At the gate of Firgrove Mr. Grey set Joan down, and watched until she
and Darby reached the front door. There a curious group had
collected--Auntie Alice, who was softly sobbing; Aunt Catharine, wearing
her garden-hat and strongest boots; Nurse Perry, Mary the cook; and
Green the gardener, armed with a stout staff and the stable lantern. It
was the search-party in the act of setting out to explore the recesses
of Copsley Wood in quest of the missing children.

Mr. Grey thought it would be in better taste to retire. He knew Miss
Turner, and he guessed that probably the next scene in the drama would
be purely private. Well, the youngsters had unquestionably disobeyed
orders, and on their own showing. They must be punished, if by no other
means they could be taught obedience, which is the first if not the
chief lesson of life. Still, it was a pity, thought the big,
soft-hearted man; and the confiding eyes of the children followed him as
he sauntered up the hill, forgetting that he was in a hurry home. The
words that had floated from their pure lips through the gloom of the
pines rang in his ears, and as he went along he hummed softly to
himself, in his deep, bass voice,--

    "Ever journeying onward,
      Guided by a star."

"Aunt Catharine's real angry this time, and no mistake," Darby thought,
as in almost perfect silence she gave him and Joan their supper, then
helped Perry to undress, bath, and put them to bed. "She's sure to
punish us somehow to-morrow though she's saying nothing about it
to-night. Oh dear! if she would not look so cold and cross, but just
give me enough spanking for us both and get it over, I'd much rather."

But Aunt Catharine had decided not to administer any bodily chastisement
to her nephew's children, although she considered that a smart whipping
now and again was almost as necessary to the well-being of young people
as cooling medicine in the spring. She had talked the matter over with
Auntie Alice, who could not bear the idea of either Darby or Joan being
put to any avoidable pain. They had been very disobedient certainly, she
was obliged to admit, and must be taught somehow to do as they were
told--Darby especially, who should have been so much wiser than Joan.
She would herself have cheerfully borne the penalty of all their
misdemeanours if she could. That was impossible, however; but she
succeeded in impressing upon her sister that perhaps Captain Dene might
not like his motherless children to be subjected to such old-fashioned
discipline. Aunt Catharine, consequently, had laid her plans for a
different course of action.

Next morning Darby slept quite late--for him--being tired out from the
fatigue of the previous evening. He awoke refreshed and brisk, however,
and was about to spring out of bed and dress himself in readiness for
the fun, frolic, and mischief of a new day, when the nursery door was
thrown wide open, and Aunt Catharine sailed into the room, arrayed in
all the glory of a Paisley-pattern morning-gown and black crochet
breakfast-cap. Now, Miss Turner was one of those people sometimes to be
met with whose moods usually match their clothes. Darby understood this
peculiarity of his aunt's in a vague sort of way, so that the moment he
set eyes on the many-coloured wrapper and sombre headgear he knew that
now they were in for it and no mistake.

"Well, what have you to say for yourselves?" she demanded in a loud
voice, seating herself solemnly in a chair between the two cribs, and
looking from one child to the other with her severest expression. "You
can answer me, Guy; Doris is hardly awake yet."

She addressed them as Guy and Doris; and knowing what that meant as well
as what was indicated by her awful attire, Darby discreetly held his
peace.

Joan sat up in bed, rubbed her eyes with her dimpled knuckles, nodded
her tangled curls towards her aunt, and, sweetly smiling, murmured,
"Mornin'!" to which cheery greeting her aunt did not respond.

There was a prophetic pause for a while; then Miss Turner spoke.

"I am pleased that at least you have the grace to be silent, to make no
excuses; because there is nothing you could say that would make your sin
appear any less heinous in my eyes--and in God's eyes," she added as an
after-thought.

"Where's the 'henas,' Aunt Catharine?" cried Joan, peeping in the
direction of the door. "I'd love to see a 'hena!' There's a picter of
some in Darby's Nat'ral Hist'ry book. They's just like wolves."

"Hush, Joan!" said Darby, in a frightened undertone; "there's no hyenas
here. Aunt Catharine means 'heenyus,' and that's a thing in the
Catechism--far on! It's only me that has come to it yet."

"You have both been guilty of the gravest disobedience," continued Miss
Turner, "and it is my duty to punish you. I have therefore decided to
keep you in bed until you repent of your naughtiness."

Here Darby started up in anger. His gray eyes flashed, his cheeks were
scarlet, his small fists clenched under the bedclothes.

"This is Saturday," went on his aunt, in her relentless voice. "You
shall stay where you are until to-morrow, Sabbath morning. Then, if you
are in a proper frame of mind, you may both get up as usual; but for one
week you shall not go beyond the garden.--And you, Guy, because you are
older than Doris, and should set your sister a good example instead of
leading her at your heels into every mischief you can devise--you are to
have an additional punishment. I desire that while you are in bed you
shall occupy yourself with your Catechism. And to-morrow, before
breakfast, I will hear you repeat the fifth commandment, with the three
following questions and the proofs thereto. After that perhaps you shall
have a clearer conception of your duty to your parents, which means, in
your case, those who are in charge of you." And having delivered herself
thus, Aunt Catharine sailed away as majestically as she had come.

Darby flung himself about in his wrath.

"Parents indeed!" he cried, in passionate scorn. "_She's_ not our
parents! she's nobody's parent. Why, I heard Postie telling Perry the
other day that the Miss Turners were both old maids when he was a kid;
and people can't be old maids and parents as well! Oh, if daddy hadn't
gone away, or if mother was only here!" he wailed in his dire distress.
Then he buried his head in the blankets, for his feelings were too
deeply wounded to find relief in words.

For a while Joan howled lustily, but by-and-by, when she had eaten her
breakfast of porridge and milk, she tumbled off to sleep again, being
still weary after her recent wanderings.

Darby, however, lay wide awake, feeling, now that his burst of anger had
passed away, very tired of things in general, and of himself in
particular. It was too dreadful, he thought, to be kept in bed on a fine
day when he was quite well, only stiff and aching all over. Outside the
air was balmy and still. The garden was ablaze with late dahlias,
hollyhocks, and asters; and down by the tool-shed Mistress Pussy and her
family would be contentedly sunning themselves beside the boxwood
border--the close-clipped boxwood border, which always gave out such a
strong, queer, haunting smell.

Oh dear, how tiresome it all was, and what a pity a fellow could not
_sometimes_ do as he liked without being called naughty and then
punished! Should life always be like that, Darby wondered. Surely not,
he told himself, or else he felt that already he had had about enough of
it. But he did not believe things were quite the same with other
children. They were different for him and Joan, because daddy was abroad
and mother dead. If they had only not been left at Firgrove with Aunt
Catharine! There were plenty of pleasant places in the world besides
Firgrove. Could not he and Joan go away somewhere, just themselves
together, where they would want only to be good, because there should be
no temptation to be naughty; where there should be no Catechism, no Aunt
Catharine, and no more punishment, especially putting to bed, which was
Darby's detestation? He really wished to be obedient, this little lad of
seven years old, and tried very hard to remember everything he was
told. But forgetting comes easy; consequently he was frequently in
trouble. He was often good for days together--quite good, as Joan said.
But the difficulty with Darby, as with older folk, was not the _being_
good, but the _keeping_ good.

For a long time the boy lay pondering some of the problems of life which
from the beginning have puzzled many a wiser head than his. But Darby
did not know that he was only going over a well-beaten track. He just
knew that he was wishful of finding some pleasant spot where, without
effort or trouble, he could be happy after his own fashion, untrammelled
and untroubled by restrictions or consequences.

The morning had glided on to noonday. Joan, having had her sleep out,
was playing with Miss Carolina in her crib. Outside a family of
lingering swallows sat on the meadow fence discussing their plans for a
hurried departure on the morrow; and from the dovecot in the yard came
the soft, continuous cooing of Auntie Alice's pigeons as they strutted
about the flags or preened their feathers in the sun. The distant
barking of Mr. Grey's collie, Scott, as he followed the sheep to the
pasture, floated in through the open window; while from the next room
came the soothing murmur of nurse's low, droning voice, singing baby
Eric over to his midday sleep.

What was it she sang? but, indeed, she seemed always singing it. Nothing
much; only a snatch here and there from that old hymn she was so fond
of, or perhaps sang almost unconsciously from habit:--

    "Oh, we shall happy be,
    When from sin and sorrow free!

     "Bright in that happy land
      Beams every eye;
    Kept by a Father's hand,
      Love cannot die.

     "Come to this happy land,
      Come, come away;
    Why will ye doubting stand?
      Why still delay?"

Suddenly Darby sat up in bed in his excitement. A brilliant thought had
struck him. Why had it not occurred to him sooner? The Happy Land!
that's where they would go. It was far, far away, certainly; but they
should take some food with them, and ask the road from time to time.

Joan was soon weary of nursing Miss Carolina. She had slipped out of her
crib and trotted over to the window, where she was occupying herself
happily in catching and shutting up in an empty pill-box the flies that
buzzed drowsily in the warm, bright sunshine.

She paused for an instant in the act of conveying with her nimble little
fingers another captive to its dungeon, when she noticed Darby's flushed
cheeks and shining eyes.

"What's the matter, dear?" inquired the tiny, white-robed maiden, in
quite a motherly manner. "Has you got a pain, Darby? or was you dreamin'
about somefin' werry nice? You does look awful funny, I fink."

"I'm not sick, and I haven't been dreaming," answered her brother, in
earnest assurance. "But I've been thinking, and I've made up my mind.
We're not going to stay here any longer. I've 'cided where we'll go.
We'll go to the Happy Land--that place nurse is often singing about,
where we shall always be good, and never be naughty, or sick, or
punished, or put to bed any more. It'll never be dark or raining either,
but always fine, and bright, bright as day!"

"How lovely!" cried Joan, clapping her hands in ecstasy, at the same
time dropping the pill-box, from which the autumn flies crawled lazily,
as if too indolent or too stupid to enjoy their newly-regained liberty.

"Just wouldn't it!" said Darby, with quivering lips and sparkling eyes,
for he was terribly excited over his scheme. "And you'll come, Joan,
won't you, lovey?"

"Yes," assented Joan, without the slightest hesitation, giving a
decisive nod of her golden head that set all her curls bobbing up and
down like daffodils in a March breeze--"yes, I'm comin' wif you, Darby
dear. When's we goin'?" she inquired anxiously, as if in haste to be
off.

Darby drew her into bed beside him, tucked up her cold pink toes in the
blankets, and in earnest, subdued tones the two discussed the how and
the when of their projected pilgrimage.

They could not set off that day, for they were prisoners. The next day
was Sunday. They would be sure to be out; but then Sunday was not a
suitable day on which to start on a lengthy journey. Monday would be a
more fitting time, and Darby remembered with a thrill of thankfulness
that early on Monday morning the aunts were going away to spend a couple
of nights at Denescroft, as grannie's charming, China-rose-trimmed
cottage was called. That would be their chance! Nurse would be almost
entirely occupied with Eric, and they two should be left to do pretty
much as they pleased. By the time their aunts returned on Wednesday
evening the little travellers would be far away, or perhaps they should
be safe within the boundaries of the Happy Land.

Before breakfast the following morning Darby repeated his appointed
task, proofs and all, without so much as a single blunder. The children
went with their aunts to church as usual. In the evening Auntie Alice
remarked to her sister how very quiet the little ones had been all day.
Aunt Catharine also had noticed their subdued demeanour. She set it down
to the chastening effect of penitence for their recent disobedience, and
hoped that it might continue during the days of their absence at least.

"Good-bye, pets," said Auntie Alice to the children the next day, as
they hung about the basket-carriage and Billy, waiting to take his
mistresses to the station. "Cheer up, Darby," she whispered. "Be a good
brother, and take care of Joan; and see and be happy until we come
back."

"Yes, Auntie Alice, I'll take care of her, sure. And we're going to be
very, very happy," he added, with a look of exultation in his eyes that
haunted his aunt until she saw him again.--"Aren't we, Joan?"

"Yes, werry, werry happy!" murmured Joan out of a tousle of sunny hair.
"Good-bye, Auntie Alice. Kiss Joan again."

"There, that will do. Stand clear of the wheel, both of you," said Aunt
Catharine, settling her ample figure comfortably into the little
basket-chaise. "Don't dirty that nice clean pinafore, Joan; and Darby,
see that you wash your hands properly before dinner."

The aunts departed, and by the time they had reached the first stage on
their journey, two little travellers stepped bravely out at the front
door, down the gravelled drive, through the wide gate, and there they
halted to hold a hurried council as to which way they should go.

Up the hill in one direction sloped the broad white road that led past
Copsley Wood. No Happy Land lay in its vicinity! By another route, along
which Billy and the basket-carriage had vanished, was the station; but
who ever heard of any one arriving at the Happy Land by rail! Some other
way still they must seek to bring them to their destination.

From the gable end of Firgrove the fields slid gradually down until they
were merged in a long, level stretch of meadow ground, through which was
cut a deep, straight canal, whose waters reached like a shining silver
belt across the emerald sward of the surrounding pasture-lands. Many a
time Darby and Joan had sat on the garden wall watching the dingy
barge-boat come and go. They had listened curiously to the voices of the
man and boy on board chatting to each other, or shouting to the patient,
plodding horse that towed along the clumsy craft, laden with this and
that for the villages and hamlets that dotted the landscape thickly
between Firdale and the far-off range of hills, which rose so proudly up
to meet the sunset and the sky.

The October day was mild, and bright as days not always are, even in
midsummer. Great gold-tinged clouds floated slowly across the high, wide
dome of the azure sky. The hilltops were bathed in a warm, soft glow;
the placid waters of the canal sparkled, dimpled, and smiled beneath the
caress of the passing breeze, until they broke into tiny ripples and
wavelets against their sedge-grown banks.

Along that silvery waterway they shall go, the children decide. Up
there, beyond the hills, they say, rise the walls of the Beautiful
City. That radiance is assuredly reflected from its streets of gold.
Those big, fleecy clouds certainly curtain the approach to the portals
of pearl!

Just then, emerging from behind a screening clump of trees, the _Smiling
Jane_, as the dingy old boat was called, slowly hove in sight. They
would run fast and coax the man to take them on board when he stopped to
get his vessel through the lock; or, better still, they would slip in
unnoticed when he was otherwise engaged. Without a thought of wrong,
with never a qualm of fear as to failure or consequences, hand in hand
they raced along in the direction of the canal, casting not so much as a
glance behind.

And thus it came about that Darby and Joan set out to seek the Happy
Land.




CHAPTER V.

GONE AMISSING!

    "The old house by the lindens
      Stood silent in the shade,
    And on the gravelled pathway
      The light and shadow played.

    "I saw the nursery windows
      Wide open to the air;
    But the faces of the children,
      They were no longer there."

                      LONGFELLOW.


When dinner-time came without bringing the children in, nurse became
very cross indeed. Baby had been somewhat troublesome all the forenoon.
Auntie Alice had lately got into the habit of taking him of a morning,
walking him about in her arms, crooning sweet nothings over him in her
soothing voice. He was old enough to miss her, and to-day was not
satisfied at being put off with only nurse. He had, besides, a new tooth
coming--a tiny pearly thing, peeping like a speck of ivory from a bed
of coral. Very pretty to look at, certainly, but doubtless extremely
painful; at least Master Baby felt it so, for he fretted and cried in a
way which set poor Perry's nerves all on edge, and made her think that
the responsibilities of her position were almost too heavy to be borne
on one pair of shoulders.

Then Master Darby and Miss Joan--how tiresome they were! always up to
some mischief or other, said nurse to herself, as she ran between the
nursery window and the front door to watch if they were not coming
before their dinner should be spoiled. And such a nice dinner as it was,
too! Cook had arranged it as a surprise for them, because they were all
by themselves, knowing how much they enjoyed roast fowl, stewed apples
and cream. Now the fowl would be dried to a cinder, the potatoes moist
and sodden, the apples cold as charity!

They must have again disobeyed orders and gone away to the farm, nurse
concluded, when twelve o'clock, one o'clock, two o'clock passed, and
still no sign of the little ones. They would be well stuffed up there,
she was sure, and quite safe; only it was really too bad of Master Darby
to steal off that way without leave, and drag his little sister along
with him. He should have nothing but dry bread for his tea, Perry
decided. Then with a glance at the bassinet, where baby was soundly
sleeping away some of his fretfulness, and a careful adjustment of the
fire-guard on the nursery grate, nurse stole downstairs to get her own
dinner, which, like the children's, would be none the better for waiting
so long past the usual time.

Eric awoke from his sound, sweet sleep refreshed and hungry. Nurse fed
him; then, as the air was mild and the sun warm, she put on his coat and
cap and carried him into the garden to watch the pussies at play.

The afternoon shadows began to lengthen, the sun slipped slowly to the
west, baby grew weary of pulling at the pussies' tails and turned
peevish again, and still the others were absent. By this time nurse had
grown downright angry with them for staying away so long. It was a shame
of Mrs. Grey to keep them. Master Darby deserved a sound smacking, nurse
said to herself; and only that she was not permitted to punish her
charges in such a manner, a sound smacking Master Darby should have
had--when nurse could catch him, that is to say. Now, however, she must
go for them. Mrs. Grey would be thinking they were neglected in the
absence of their aunts, and perhaps telling tales. So, after wrapping
Eric up warmly in a big woolly shawl, she tucked him into his
perambulator and set off up the glen road, past the wood and the
turnip-field, to Copsley Farm, expecting at every turn to meet Darby and
Joan rushing towards her on their homeward way. But no such interruption
to her progress occurred.

When she reached the farm an unpleasant surprise awaited her. Neither
Darby nor Joan had been there that day--not since the Friday, said Mrs.
Grey; and she was disappointed, because, having heard that the ladies
were going from home without the children, she quite expected they would
have lost no time in paying her a visit.

At that moment Mr. Grey came in from the barn, where he had been
threshing corn all the afternoon. He was tired, heated, and hungry for
his tea, and only laughed when his wife told him that the little folks
from Firgrove had gone amissing.

"Well, an' what if they have?" he exclaimed, in his loud, hearty voice.
"That needn't scare you. Aren't they always gettin' into trouble o' some
kind or another, the pair o' them? Why, sure it's only the other day
there that I found them wandered in Copsley Wood, like two motherless
lambs! They were lost, the little 'un told me, quite lost! An' there
they were sittin', the two o' them, on the stump o' an old tree, wrapped
in one another's arms, for all the world like the babes in the wood--an'
not more'n half a dozen yards from the highway!"

"An' that's where they are now, sure enough," said Mrs. Grey, in a tone
of conviction. "They'll have gone back after them squirrels that led
them such a dance on Friday! What do you think, Miss Perry?" she asked
anxiously.

"I am certain of it too, now that you mention it," replied nurse,
looking aghast at the thought. "Miss Joan was fair wild to get a
squirrel; and Master Darby, he's that venturesome he would face
anything. He doesn't know the meaning of fear for all he's so gentle and
innocent-like. And Miss Joan follows him just like a dog. Dear, dear--to
think of it!"

"You may well say that, for Copsley Wood's no place for them to be in by
themselves," said Mrs. Grey, eyeing nurse with some disapproval in her
glance.

"It's no place for decent people, let alone children," retorted Perry
in her turn. "It was no further back than yesterday that the butcher's
young man was telling me that a couple of gipsies or tramps have set up
their tent there. He was pressing me to take a walk with him," she
explained, hanging her head and playing with the fringe of baby's shawl;
"and I said as how I'd never been in the wood. 'All the better,' says
Jenkins, quite short, 'because that wood ain't no place for you, nor for
any other nice young lady.' Oh, if they've gone and got kidnapped or
murdered, what ever shall I do!" sobbed Perry, who was really a
well-meaning woman, and good at heart in spite of a certain
narrow-mindedness, not uncommon to her class, which hindered her from
seeing at any time much further than her own nose.

Mrs. Grey had listened to nurse's speech with ill-concealed scorn.

"Young lady indeed!" she said afterwards to Mr. Grey, giving a
contemptuous sniff. "Her a lady--and young too! Why, she's
eight-and-twenty if she's a day! And a lad like Jim Jenkins! Sakes
alive! the conceit o' some folks is sickenin'!"

Then when Perry began to weep and lament, the older woman watched her
curiously in order to make sure how little of her feeling was real, how
much assumed. But such distress was undoubtedly genuine, Mrs. Grey
decided, and her eyes held a kindlier expression as she said
soothingly,--

"Come now, cheer up! Takin' on that way won't do no manner o' good. You
had better hurry home with the baby now. It's gettin' late for him to be
out, pretty dear! Maybe you'll find the other two there before you, and
famishin' for their tea."

"The missis is right," agreed Mr. Grey, rising from the table as he
spoke, and wiping his mouth with a huge, red cotton pocket-handkerchief.
"You get along as fast as ever you can, an' if the young shavers isn't
at Firgrove afore you, send somebody up wi' a message. Then me an' Tom
Brook 'll take a look round; an' if they're anywhere inside Copsley
Wood, we'll bring them home to you afore bedtime yet, I'll be bound."

But when nurse got back to Firgrove, Darby and Joan were still absent;
so, giving Eric in charge to Mary the cook, she sped up the hill again
herself, flying as fast as fear and excitement could urge her, and
reached the farm, panting and breathless, just when Mr. Grey and his
head man, Tom Brook, were putting on their coats and preparing to leave
the barn for the night.

Until almost midnight the two men tramped hither and thither through the
labyrinths of Copsley Wood, carrying the stable lantern to give them
light, armed with stout sticks with which to poke among the dense
undergrowth of laurel, holly, and hazel that formed such a close cover
for the game of various sorts with which the wood was so thickly
populated. Now and then from her form amid the withered fern a
frightened hare leaped among their very feet. Startled rabbits scurried
here and there over the soft moss and rustling leaves. The cry of a
night-bird from time to time broke the intense stillness of the lonesome
place, while more than once they were alarmed by a soft something that
brushed their face, as a big, downy white owl passed them by in search
of its prey. In a dell hidden in the very heart of the wood they came
upon what apparently had been the camping-ground of some wanderers--the
gipsies probably, concerning whom the tales and rumours were so rife and
so exaggerated of late. It must have been used quite recently, for where
the fire had been built the wood ash was white and undisturbed; while
the crusts, bones, and fragments of a rough-and-ready meal still
littered the green turf that spread in such a fresh, delicious carpet
all around the spot. But now the dell was deserted. The feeling of
desolation always conveyed by the sight of a burned-out fire, a forsaken
hearth, struck chilly on Mr. Grey's senses, and he turned away in
disappointment from the tenantless place. Then the two men gazed blankly
into each other's eyes. The children could not be found; not a trace of
them was to be seen, except a small battered shoe--the shoe that Joan
had left behind the preceding Friday.

By this time they were so tired out that they were reluctantly obliged
to give over their search for the night; so, feeling footsore, and
disheartened by their want of success, they went each his own way
homewards.

Mr. Grey was now thoroughly alarmed for the safety of his wife's little
favourites, not knowing what mishap might have overtaken them. As for
nurse, her state of mind was pitiable. She alone had been left in charge
of the children, and she only was responsible to the Misses Turner for
their safety. And what would Captain Dene say--her master, whom she had
solemnly promised to take good care of his motherless children? She had
done her best, poor Perry; for although often impatient and
unsympathetic with the little ones, she loved them devotedly, and would
now willingly have imperilled her own safety to secure theirs. Oh, how
earnestly she wished that Miss Turner and Miss Alice were home again, or
rather that they had not gone away! It was, of course, too late to
communicate with them that night, but it must be done first thing next
morning--as soon as the telegraph office should be open.

"How shall I face them?" cried nurse wildly, pushing cook and baby away
in her impatience.

Cook looked hurt. She had good-naturedly taken care of Eric all evening,
and been much diverted by his funny ways. She had offered the little
fellow to nurse with the best intentions in the world, thinking that
attending to his wants might distract her attention from her trouble.
But nurse was not to be consoled thus. She could think of nothing except
the calamity which had befallen the household in general, herself in
particular, and for the time being baby was of no importance in her
eyes; even the adoring Jenkins was forgotten! Nothing remained but her
own nervous terror and distress.

Next morning, as soon as it was daylight, Mr. Grey hastened down to
Firgrove to inquire if Perry had heard anything of the missing children.
She had not, and was in a most miserable frame of mind after an
anxious, sleepless night.

While she and Mr. Grey stood talking together, Tom Brook passed by on
his way to work at the farm, and seeing the two in conversation, joined
them. But he brought no comfort to their council with the tidings he had
to tell--not much at most, yet important as furnishing a possible clue
to the fate of the lost ones.

The previous forenoon some of his children at play beside the lock had
noticed Master Darby and Miss Joan down along the tow-path; but as they
were accustomed seeing the pair trotting about by themselves
continually, here, there, and everywhere, they paid no particular
attention to their movements.

"They didn't go to Copsley Wood after all, then," said Mr. Grey, looking
very grave, for his fears had been directed into a fresh channel.

"They've gone playing about the canal and fallen in!" cried nurse, with
a great outburst of tears. "Now they're drownded, dead drownded, both of
them! O my poor lambs! why did I let you out of my sight for one minute?
What will master say? O my dear, sweet mistress, this would never have
happened if you hadn't been tooken away from us!"

Miss Turner and Miss Alice were seated at breakfast in Grannie Dene's
pretty parlour, where the China roses, that were for all the world just
the colour of Joan's cheeks, peeped and nodded round the window. They
were chatting briskly with grannie, whom they had found much stronger,
and able easily to move about and attend to the affairs of her small
household, and making their plans for the day. Aunt Catharine was
arranging everything in her usual capable way. Grannie nodded her head
in approval, looking the very picture of a sweet, high-bred old lady;
while Auntie Alice agreed to all her sister suggested, as was her placid
wont. She appeared contented and at ease, yet from time to time an
anxious, far-away look would unconsciously creep into her eyes and
shadow her gentle face when she thought of the little ones at home,
wondering how they were all getting on--whether Eric's new tooth had
come properly through; if Darby was being an obedient boy and taking
good care of Joan.

The click of the garden-gate attracted their attention, and immediately
after a whistling telegraph-boy passed the window and the China roses on
his way to the hall door. Auntie Alice rose from the breakfast-table
with a queer, fluttering feeling about her heart, and hurried to meet
the messenger. She took the rustling, brick-coloured envelope from his
hand, and in another instant the message dictated with much anxiety by
Mr. Grey lay open before the alarmed ladies,--

"Come home at once. Darby and Joan missing since yesterday."

"Oh, my dears, my dears! Sister, sister! why did we leave them?" was the
cry that broke from Auntie Alice's trembling lips. It was but the
expression of a nameless dread which had weighed upon her ever since she
started from Firgrove, leaving Darby standing looking after them, with
that expression in his eyes of such perfect purity and peace.

Grannie's thoughts flashed like lightning from the lost children to the
absent father. She was not a woman of many words, and made little
outward sign of the sorrow that had suddenly seized upon her. She just
hid her patient face in her thin white hands, murmuring brokenly,--

"Oh, Guy, Guy! my son, my son!"

"Well, I declare! One would think those two had never got into a scrape
before from the way you are going on," said Miss Turner sharply,
addressing her sister, yet casting a glance of disapproval in the
direction of Mrs. Dene. "It was only the other day that they went
wandering into Copsley Wood; and here, when we were ready to set out in
search of them, didn't they turn up as cool as you please, smiling as
sweetly as a couple of cherubs! Mr. Grey is alarming us needlessly. He
and his wife are perfectly silly about those children! It was exactly
the same when Guy was a boy. He had nothing to do but run up to Mrs.
Grey for petting and sympathy whenever he made things too hot for
himself at Firgrove. Well, if Darby has disobeyed me this time, after
all I said, and the Catechism and everything, I won't be so soft with
him in future, that's certain!" declared Aunt Catharine, in her severest
voice; yet her fresh-coloured face had grown pale, her eyes were
troubled, her lips trembled. In her heart of hearts she wished she had
not been quite so strict with her nephew's children, Darby
especially--poor Dorothy Archdale's motherless little lad.

It was afternoon by the time the ladies arrived at Firdale, the small
wayside station nearest to Firgrove. Mr. Grey had forsaken his farm and
his threshing, and was waiting to receive them. But one glance at his
honest face was sufficient to assure them that he was not the bearer of
any good news. Nothing further had been heard of the missing children.
Copsley Wood had been scoured by a band of beaters from end to end, with
no better success than had attended the efforts of the two men the night
before. Mr. Grey's thoughts had reverted again and again to the
ill-favoured man and black-browed woman--gipsies they were said to be,
but more likely they were only ordinary vagrants--who had been seen
lately loitering about the neighbourhood, and whose appearance had given
rise to the wildest and absurdest rumours. One cottager, it was said,
had lost all her hens; another missed a young pig out of its sty, while
the ailing infant of a third had died in convulsions soon after the
dark-faced female was at the door demanding a draught of milk! Mrs. Grey
had suggested that perhaps the evil pair had kidnapped the pretty
children, meaning to make use of them in some way--for such things
happened, if one was to believe all that appeared in the newspapers--or
in order to draw a reward out of their friends. Her husband laughed at
the idea; yet he caused the tramps to be traced and followed from their
deserted quarters in the wood up to the time when they had forced their
way, as the bargeman affirmed, on board the barge-boat close beside the
village of Shendon. They had no youngsters with them then of any
description, bargee was positive; just the man and woman by themselves.
They were not gipsies at all, he added, but some sort of play-acting
people journeying to join their party, who had preceded them to
Barchester by a few days. Folks of that class were not likely to have
had a hand in the disappearance of anybody's children; they usually had
plenty of their own.

The ladies discussed the ins and outs of the odd affair with Mr. Grey in
all its bearings. At length they were forced to the conclusion that it
was in the region of the canal they must seek the little ones--whether
about it or in it only time should tell. Miss Alice wept softly, while
Miss Turner was wondering, with a terrible weight on her heart, what she
should say in the cablegram to Africa; for if Darby and Joan did not
turn up, and soon too, she knew that their father should have to be
informed of the calamity which had befallen him.

Mr. Grey hurried home to snatch a hasty meal and tell his wife not to be
anxious about his absence. Then he and Tom Brook, with two other men,
set off to follow the clue furnished by Tom Brook's children. At
Firgrove the household waited, eager for news, with what patience they
could command, and they needed a good share; for waiting, as everybody
knows, is wearier work than doing.

Step by step, two of them on one side and two on the other, they tramped
along the course of the canal, poking with their sticks into the long,
sedgy grass and reeds beside its banks, peering among the clumps of
osiers that grew thick and tall in the damp, spongy ground below the
tow-path. On, on they went, only pausing for a few minutes now and
again, to take a rest or to hold a consultation. They questioned closely
every pedestrian whom they met by the way, but nobody could give them
any tidings to help them in their search. And still they pressed on,
past locks, hamlets, villages--on, on, until, when night was closing in
around them, they reached Barchester. There, perforce, they must pause;
for beyond Barchester was the sea, so at Barchester the canal came to an
abrupt conclusion.

It was a weary and dispirited little group that gathered on the wharf in
the fast-falling darkness of the October evening. The other men, as well
as Mr. Grey, had known Captain Dene from his infancy almost, and two of
them had little ones of their own snug and safe by their cottage hearths
at that dull evening hour. They consequently felt keenly the sorrow that
threatened the absent father; also the distress and trouble of the aunts
at Firgrove, who had so generously taken upon them the responsible duty,
which not infrequently turns out a thankless task, of taking charge of
somebody else's bairns.

The wharf, except for themselves, was deserted. It was almost dark, too,
lighted only by one badly-trimmed paraffin lamp that swung above the
door of the room or office which the keeper occupied during the day. Its
flickering rays fell on the deep, sluggish waters of the canal as they
lapped and gurgled round the wet, slimy beams on which the planks were
supported. Mr. Grey stood somewhat apart from the others, and gazed idly
at the shadows cast by the dimly-burning lamp, as they swayed backwards
and forwards, up and down, with each slow movement of the water; yet he
did not actually see anything. He was thinking of the winsome wee pair
whom he had come upon a few days before sitting on a tree-stump in
Copsley Wood--of their trusting eyes, their sweet voices, their artless
prattle, their firm faith in the protecting power of their heavenly
Father. Assuredly He had them in His careful keeping some place; but
where?--on earth or in heaven? This was the question which so sorely
perplexed the anxious searchers.

Suddenly something attracted Mr. Grey's attention--something that had
got jammed in a space between two rotten beams which floated alongside
the flooring of the crazy old wharf--and his heart leaped in his breast
with a throb of sickening fear. He stooped over the water, reached
forward his stout staff, and with its hooked head carefully hauled up
that something which he instinctively shrank from seeing, without
exactly knowing why.

Yet it was nothing much after all, neither more nor less than what may
be seen any day drifting hither and thither amongst scraps and straws
upon the surface of a stream--only a child's sailor-hat, which had once
been white, but was now sadly discoloured, soaked with water, and
hanging almost in pieces. A faded blue ribbon dangled from its battered
brim, bearing on its surface in tarnished gold letters the title of the
ship to which its wearer belonged--H.M.S. _Dreadnought_.

With a queer choking in his throat Mr. Grey carried his find close to
what light there was beneath the dirty lamp, while with strained, eager
faces the other men peered over his shoulder, and then, sure enough,
they saw what they feared. For there, inside the hat, stitched to the
lining of the crown by a careful mother's loving fingers, was a piece of
tape on which a name was plainly written, the name of--Darby Dene!




CHAPTER VI.

THE CRUISE OF H.M.S. "DREADNOUGHT."

    "Shall we call this a boat out at sea,
      We four sailors rowing?
    Can you fancy it? Well, as for me,
      I feel the salt wind blowing.
    Up, up and down, lazy boat!
    On the top of a wave we float;
    Down we go with a rush.
      Far off I see the strand
    Glimmer; our boat we'll push
      Ashore on fairyland."

     --A. KEARY.


And now it is time to return to the two little travellers.

The big red barge-boat came swinging slowly through the lock as the
children came close to the canal. They were too late to get aboard
there, and they hung back in disappointment and indecision. After
clearing the lock and exchanging a word or two with the woman at the
toll, the bargeman had laid himself down upon a heap of empty sacks, to
take a nap most probably, leaving his boy in charge of the tiller. Soon
bargee was wrapped in slumber, and the boy buried in a penny dreadful.
Darby and Joan did not desire to disturb either of them. They were
anxious above all things to get on board the boat unnoticed; so, after a
hurried consultation carried on in whispers, they agreed that their best
plan would be to walk on to the next stopping-place--a tiny clump of
cottages and a shop or two, called by courtesy a village--and make sure
of embarking there. This hamlet was only about half a mile off. They
could reach it easily before the barge; and keeping well in the shelter
of the fringe of alders, osiers, and reeds that grew thickly in the
marshy ground below the tow-path, lest the man or the lad should look
about and spy them, the children trotted straight along, with their
eager eyes steadfastly fixed upon the far-off hills in front.

Bargee was soon snoring lustily; the boy seemed to find his story
all-absorbing; the old brown horse knew every step of the way, foot for
foot, better than either of them, and required no guiding: consequently
the little ones were in scarcely any danger of detection. Besides, even
if the man or the boy on board the canal-boat had noticed the pair
stealing along behind the bushes, neither would have thought of
challenging their presence or casting upon them more than a passing
glance. They would have simply accepted them for what they appeared to
the casual observer--two cottage children who were either altogether
motherless or sadly neglected--and then forgotten all about them. For,
to be quite candid, they looked far from respectable--entirely unlike
the trim, spotless little persons whom Perry had dressed with such care
and precision only some hours before; bearing but small resemblance in
their general cut to the dainty figures which had run the gauntlet of
Aunt Catharine's eagle eyes as they sat opposite to her at breakfast
early that morning.

Soon after the children's arrival at Firgrove, Miss Turner had gone
carefully through their clothing,--adding a number of fresh garments to
their stock, discarding others which had been purchased according to
Perry's idea of fitness as being entirely unbecoming or unsuitable,
laying aside for distribution among her poor a goodly quantity that had
grown either so small or so shabby as to be altogether unfit for further
wear--by Captain Dene's children and Miss Turner's young relatives, that
is to say.

Upon this store Darby had drawn; for with an eye to thrift which would
have done credit to Aunt Catharine herself, and expectation of the fresh
and beautiful rig-out awaiting them in the land for which they were
bound, he considered that it would be sheer and sinful extravagance to
carry away with them any clothes, except what they could with an easy
conscience cast aside--as Christian left _his_ rags behind when by the
Shining One he was dressed anew.

Picture them then, please!

Darby wore a velveteen suit which had once been black, but now, from
stress of wear and weather, had turned a sickly green. From the scrimpy
legs of the knickerbockers his knees shone bare and brown. Out of the
sleeves, that reached only half-way below the elbows, his arms stuck
freely, showing a broad band of untanned wrist between the button-less
cuffs and the chubby, sunburnt hand. A pair of sadly-scuffed shoes,
which originally had been nut-brown calf, were held upon his feet by one
solitary button and a piece of string; while his headgear consisted of a
sailor-hat, with battered brim, and blue ribbon band so stained and
faded that only with difficulty one could make out the name upon its
silken surface--H.M.S. _Dreadnought_--a most appropriate one for the
ship in which this dauntless mariner sailed, for he had in truth a brave
and fearless spirit!

As for Joan, she appeared to be even more after the tinker type than
Darby. Her cotton frock had once upon a time been pink and pretty as a
double daisy. Now it was washed-out, worn, and, sad to say, in several
places torn. At different points the skirt had rebelliously escaped from
the confinement of gathers round the waist; the back gaped open where in
sundry spots the hooks and eyes had quarrelled and agreed to meet no
more. On her shining golden curls she had set a cast-off garden-hat
belonging to Aunt Catharine, of brown straw, in what was known as the
mushroom shape. Surmounting Joan's tiny figure it looked exactly like a
small umbrella, which hid her blue eyes, and shaded her pink-and-white
complexion so completely that several times Darby stooped down, peeped
under the floppy brim, crying merrily, much to his sister's amusement,
"Anybody at home to-day? any one within here?" Her feet were dressed
somewhat after the same fashion as her brother's; while round her
shoulders, crossed in front and tied by Darby's fumbling fingers in a
clumsy knot behind, was a faded tartan shoulder-shawl that had once been
Perry's, but for many a month and day had been used as the nursery
blanket of all the invalid dolls in Joan's large family.

They were a pair, without doubt. No one could have known them a little
way off, not even their father or nurse--well, not nurse certainly,
although their father might, if he had glanced at them a second time;
for love's eyes are keen, and not mother-love itself is deeper,
stronger, truer than a good father's for his trusting children.

Bargee slept soundly on his couch of empty corn-sacks; the lad was still
lost in his story; the brown horse went slower and slower, pausing now
and again to snatch a mouthful of grass from the bank beside his feet,
until at length he stopped altogether, and, settling himself comfortably
on three legs, he shut his eyes and prepared to follow his master's
example.

The little ones were now some way in advance of the boat; but when they
looked back and observed that boat and horse had come to a standstill,
they agreed that they also might rest awhile, and joyfully threw
themselves down upon the soft, cool meadow grass, taking good care to
keep well out of sight of those other two afloat upon the canal.

"I's hungry--werry," said Joan, with a tired sort of sigh. "Isn't it
never near dinner-time yet, Darby?"

"Yes, I think it must be by this time," replied Darby, looking knowingly
in the direction of the sun, as he had seen Mr. Grey and Green the
gardener do. "And if it isn't it ought, for I'm hungry too. Come, and
we'll eat some of our biscuits and things."

"But there's no meat or potatoes or puddin'. It won't be real dinner
wifout meat," grumbled Joan.

"Well, we can't have real dinner--pilgrims on a long journey never
do--but we can make believe that we have. Won't that do instead, Joan?"
asked Darby anxiously.

"Yes, it'll do quite well--to-day," answered Joan, jumping up and
beginning in true housewifely fashion to set out their repast.

From each child's pocket came a crumpled pocket-handkerchief, not very
large, and, if the truth must be told, not over clean. These Joan spread
on the grass to serve as a tablecloth. Then Darby proceeded to
distribute the rations for the midday meal--to each a tiny tart, a slice
of seed-cake, one biscuit, and a mellow russet pear.

"Now, isn't that a lovely dinner?" he demanded proudly; "and there's
nearly--not quite, but almost--as much more for tea," he added, peering
into the depths of the old reticule which was slung, haversack fashion,
across his shoulders.

"Yes, it's 'licious," agreed Joan, with her mouth full of cracknel
biscuit. Now cracknels are rather dry eating, and when one's mouth is
otherwise occupied it is not easy to speak distinctly. However, the
biscuit went over with an effort, and Joan's mouth was free for further
speech. "It's a puffic'ly 'licious dinner," she repeated. "Why, if we'd
been at home instead of goin' to the Happy Land, nurse would only have
given us chops, and maybe rice and jam."

"Yes; she's always giving us things like that, and they've hardly any
taste. When I'm big I'll never eat rice or mutton, but nice, nippy,
mustardy meat, like what father used to give us from his dinners. We
never get nothing like that now," sighed the little boy, as if he were
very badly used indeed.

"It's because Aunt Catharine doesn't think they're good for you,"
replied Joan wisely. "I heard her tellin' cook to be sure an' give the
chil'ens plenty of pow'idge, bread an' milk, an' lots of busted rice. I
wonder why she calls the rice busted."

"It's not 'busted'," corrected Darby, laughing gleefully; "it's _burst_
you mean!"

"It doesn't matter which, I'm sure, for it's just nonsense to speak
about rice bein' busted. It's us that's busted when we've eated great
plates of it--nashty, messy stuff!" and Joan turned up her dainty little
nose in disgust at what she was so tired of hearing called "plain,
wholesome food."

Then she sighed heavily.

"What's the matter with you?" anxiously asked Darby. "Have you not had
enough?"

"Yes, I've had enough--at least--it doesn't matter. I was only wishin'
we had a drink of milk. I don't want to be gweedy; but oh, I does want a
drink so badly! I's so awful thirsty. 'Twas the biscuits, I'm sure,"
added Joan apologetically.

"I'm afraid I forgot to bring any milk," said Darby regretfully.
"There's lots of water in the canal, of course. I could carry you some
in my hat; but then I don't think it's very clean."

"I'm sure it looks all right," replied the little girl, grasping eagerly
at her brother's idea. "It's brown, but see how it sparkles!"

"Come on, then, and I'll lift you out some," assented Darby. "But you
mustn't take much, mind; just what will wash down that biscuit, for it
_was_ dry!"

They crept up the bank of the canal in shelter of a sheaf of tall reeds.
Together they crouched upon the brink. Joan held Darby's hand fast while
he leaned down and with his hat ladled her up a small measure of the
doubtful-looking liquid, which she swallowed greedily and pronounced the
nicest water she had ever tasted--better even than milk.

Darby shook the moisture from his hat and waved it in the air to
dry--backwards, forwards, round and round, faster and faster. It was
almost dry. A few more turns would complete the process, and he twirled
it quicker still, when all at once it went flying from his fingers,
skimming right into the middle of the canal, hopelessly out of reach!

He gazed after it with such a blank look that Joan laughed gleefully.
Away it went, sailing slowly along, the blue ribbon trailing like a tail
behind; on, on, farther and farther, until at length, behind a clump of
osiers that hung over the bank and dipped into the water at a bend in
the canal, the watchers lost sight of the gallant little craft--H.M.S.
_Dreadnought_!

"It's gone!" said Darby ruefully. "Well, it's a good thing that it was
only an old one," he continued, in a cheerier tone. "I'm just as comfy
without a hat. Perhaps it'll be to one of those big schools where the
boys wear nothing on their head but their hairs that father will send me
by-and-by, so I'd best be getting used to going without. And in the
Happy Land hymn, although it tells about the robes--at least, I expect
it's them that's 'bright, bright as day'--there's not a word about what
they wear on their heads, except a crown, and one couldn't wear anything
else along with that."

"I wants another drink," whimpered Joan after a pause, preparing to lay
hands on Aunt Catharine's mushroom hat. "Take my hat, Darby; it'll hold
lots and lots of water. That ho'wid old cracknel's stickin' in my froat
yet," and she gasped piteously, like a chicken with the pip.

"Certainly not," answered Darby decisively, putting down his foot, so to
speak, in his most masterful manner. "You can't have any more of that
bad water. Don't you know it's very dangerous to drink bad water?
There's funny little beasts living in it called microscopes. They get
into the blood and carry on dreadful. They give people fever, and typus,
and palsy, and cholera-mortis, and--and--I don't know what all," and he
took a long breath, having somewhat exhausted the supply along with his
list of horrors. "I heard Dr. King telling Auntie Alice all about it one
day."

Joan heard him out with open mouth and wondering eyes. How clever Darby
was! He knew everything--almost! Her admiration was short-lived,
however. Soon she returned to the charge, and with the skirt of her
cotton frock at her eyes, she wailed anew,--

"I want a drink, I do, or my tea. Bo--o--o! I wants my tea!"

"Don't think any more about being thirsty, Joan, like a good girl,"
coaxed her brother, laying his arm lovingly round his little sister's
shoulders. "That's the right way to do when you've got a pain or
anything that won't get better--just pretend it's not there. Or we'll
make believe that we've had our tea--although it's only done being
dinner-time--and that nurse has just handed us our second cup, and, by
mistake for her own, put four lumps of sugar in it. My, isn't it sweet!"
And Darby smacked his lips, but Joan did not lift her head. "Maybe we'll
get some nice fresh water when we get into the barge," he added, seeing
that his first tactics had failed. "And when we reach the Happy Land
there'll be oceans of it--streams and streams of pure, sparkling water,
clear as crystal! Think of that, Joan!"

The prospect, though pleasing, was too remote to satisfy Joan's
immediate craving, or fancy rather, for she was not nearly so thirsty as
she indicated, and she kept on whimpering,--

"Bo--o--o! I want a drink--I wants my tea!"

Darby always felt helpless when Joan went on crying in that persistent
way, and he looked about him in despair. Then he started up in haste, at
the same time dragging at his sister's hand.

"Come on!" he cried. "See, the horse has started; the _Smiling Jane_'s
moving. They're a good way in front. We'll have to run a bit to catch up
on them."

Thus opportunely diverted from brooding on her grievance, Joan quickly
dried her eyes, trotted contentedly along by her brother's side, and
soon they arrived quite close to the rude wharf, where the boat would
stop long enough to deliver the goods intended for the village and take
in some fresh cargo to be handed out at one of the hamlets further on.

As the boat came in a number of people were collected on the wharf
waiting to receive their goods, because to this out-of-the-way place
the canal-boat served instead of a carrier's cart; therefore all kinds
of things--from bags of corn, tons of coal, sacks of potatoes, down to
small packages--were sent and received by this route, and the arrival of
bargee and his boat made quite a break in the uneventful lives of the
inhabitants of that remote, far-scattered district. They chatted,
laughed, shouted, and bandied jokes with each other and the bargeman,
who had sprung from his craft the moment she was made fast to the wharf,
and stamped about, up and down, as if he was glad to find himself with
plenty of elbow-room once more.

In the hubbub and general bustle the children had little or no
difficulty in stealing unobserved on board the barge. They had been on
her once before with a friendly old bargeman but recently retired to
give place to a younger, more active man, who was a stranger on the
route, consequently did not know the little folks from Firgrove. Darby
drew Joan behind him, and making straight below for the bunker, called
by courtesy the cabin, they curled themselves up on an old rug in its
farthest, darkest corner, where, worn out with excitement and fatigue,
they soon fell fast asleep.




CHAPTER VII.

HILL DIFFICULTY.

    "He was a rat, and she was a rat,
      And down in one hole they did dwell;
    And both were as black as a witch's cat,
      And they loved one another well.

    "He smelt the cheese, and she smelt the cheese,
      And they both pronounced it good;
    And both remarked it would greatly add
      To the charms of their daily food."

                               --_Anon._


The cargo for Ashville had been discharged, the stuff for Shendon stowed
away. A fresh horse waited on the path; the gathering of people had
scattered, carrying their goods and their gossip with them. The boy was
feasting upon a hunch of bread and cheese, as a change from devouring
his story. Bargee was in the act of stepping on board when a man laid a
hand on his arm, and a rough voice arrested his steps. Two persons were
standing beside him.

"Say, mate, will you give me an' my wife a lift as far as Engleton?
We've been on tramp this last week, an' we're both dead beat."

Bargee looked curiously at the speaker, a great, ill-looking fellow,
with coarse red hair and a crooked eye. From the man he glanced at his
companion, a tall, broadly-built woman, with bold black eyes, olive
skin, and flaming cheeks. They were the pair, in short, who had watched
Darby and Joan from behind the clump of hazel bushes as they sat upon
the tree-stump that day in Copsley Wood.

"Can't," said the young bargeman shortly. "It's against rules for this
yer boat to carry passengers."

"Ay, ay, I know all that; but just for once you might oblige a chap. We
could make it worth yer while," added the fellow insinuatingly.

"Do now," put in the woman in a wheedling voice, fixing her big, bold
eyes on bargee's face. "My feet's blistered, an' my legs that stiff I
couldn't walk another mile to save my life."

"Don't then," he answered shortly, preparing to push past her and get
into the boat.

But she clung to his hand, determined not to be thrown off, smiling
broadly into his dull face, almost dazzling him with the flash of her
strong white teeth, which she displayed so freely.

"Well, to be sure, who would think now that a fine feller like you could
be so hard-hearted! Sich a well-set-up lad," she continued, "an' with
sich a fetchin' kind o' look, shouldn't be backward in helpin' other
folks, especially a woman as is tired out like me."

"Can't you stop here overnight and rest, then? you'll be fit enough to
foot it to Engleton in the morning. Where's your hurry?" asked bargee,
beginning to relent under the smiling glances and flattering words of
the temptress.

"Well, it's this way," explained the red-haired man, fixing bargee with
his straight eye, while the crooked one gazed into space about half a
foot above his head. "We belongs to the Satellite Circus Company; we're
the proprietors, in fact, me an' my missis here--"

"You don't mean that old shandrydan of a caravan that passed along there
two or three days ago?" and bargee jerked his thumb in the direction of
the hilly tract sloping up from the canal course, through which a narrow
road, little better than a sheep track, wound its circuitous way. "Do
you call _yon_ a circus company?" he asked, laughing broadly into the
proprietor's ugly face.

"Undoubtedly--the Satellite Circus Company, as I think I remarked
before. We're a small party, small but select--_very_" and the
red-haired man winked knowingly in the direction of his wife. "As I was
tryin' to explain, the caravan with part of our troupe went on to
Barchester the other day; but me an' my missis here--she wasn't feelin'
well-like--we stayed behind in the country to recruit, as the newspapers
says about all the big folks, an' get the benefit o' the fresh air."

"Then 'twas ye was loiterin' about Firdale an' Copsley Wood scarin'
people out o' their wits? Poachin'--eh?" asked the young fellow, with a
grin.

The proprietor of the Satellite Circus Company made no reply, and after
a moment's hesitation his wife answered for him.

"Look ee here," she said insinuatingly, sidling at the same time nearer
to bargee, and speaking with her mouth close to his ear. "Wouldn't
_them_ make a tasty stew for yer supper to-night, my lad?" opening as
she spoke a huge wallet which hung concealed beneath the folds of her
faded scarlet shawl, and drawing from its depths a couple of plump young
rabbits and a pair of wood-pigeons.

"By jingo! wouldn't they though!" he exclaimed, smacking his lips at
the prospect of the toothsome meal the woman was willing to provide.
What a pity he could not oblige her and her husband! They were only
tramps, to be sure, but decent enough for all that. What harm could they
do on board the old tub of a boat? And what a supper he should have
after he reached Barchester!

Bargee looked about him. The boy was seated beside the tiller and paying
no attention to his master; he was still busy with his bread and cheese.
The toll-keeper yet lingered within the office, so for his benefit
bargee raised his voice as he said roughly,--

"No, no, I tell ye. There's no use o' ye hangin' an' pesterin' here no
longer. I durstn't disobey orders, an' that's the end o't." Then he
added in a rapid whisper into the woman's quick ear as he boarded his
craft,--

"Push on to the next lock, it's about a mile further, an' I'll take ye
in then. But mind, if ye're asked any questions, mum's the word."

With a knowing wink and comprehensive smile the pair leisurely sauntered
off the wharf; and when the canal-boat slowed in passing the next toll,
with an agile spring the red-haired man leaped from the path to the
deck, then helped his missis, as he called the bold-eyed, black-browed
woman, in beside him.

Thus Joe Harris, or Thieving Joe, as he was known among his associates,
and his wife Moll came to be passengers along with our two little
travellers on board the _Smiling Jane_.

The bargeman himself now took the tiller. The boy had stolen back to his
story, so the newcomers drew somewhat apart, where they sat talking to
each other in subdued, earnest tones of the small voyagers then sleeping
so serenely in the dirty bunker below--the pretty pair whom they had of
set purpose shadowed along the canal, watched aboard the boat, and
determinedly followed.

"We've trapped them sure enough this time, Moll, my beauty," said the
man, indicating the cabin and the little creatures therein by a side nod
of his great red head.

"Ay, surely," answered Moll, with a slow smile. "I expec' the pretty
dears is sleepin' sweet as angels down in that dirty hole. But, Joe, now
as we have got 'em, do you think it'll be safe to keep 'em? Won't their
folks make a row, an' sen' the beaks after us?"

"Folks!" echoed Mr. Harris in mockery. "My, you are a green un, though
you're sich a black beauty! Do you suppose if they had any folks
belongin' to 'em worth speakin' o' that they'd be let go galavantin'
round as we've seed them--here, there, an' everywhere? No, no; they'd be
walkin' about hand in hand as prim as peonies, wi' a starched-up nurse
girl at their heels."

"They're out on a lark, you bet; that's what it is," said Moll, nodding
her head sagaciously. "Kids like they is allus up to somethin'. Maybe
they've runned away. More'n likely."

"Humbug!" snapped Joe shortly. "Didn't you notice their clo'es? They're
nothin' but washed-out rags an' far-worn clouts!" he declared, as if his
opinion should settle the question beyond further doubt.

"Rags an' clouts if you like," agreed Moll cheerily, "but they wasn't
allus that. They're the remains o' real nice good things. Mind, Joe, I
knows, an' you don't; men never does about sich matters."

"Stuff an' nonsense," he growled. "Clo'es or rags, it don't matter a
button, for they're only common brats, I tell you. There'll be a bit o'
an outcry after them for a day or two; then it'll die down as quick as
it rose. Poor folks haven't time to indulge their feelin's. Besides,
once we've got clear off they'll never find us. We've covered our tracks
purty cleverly, I'm thinkin', an' so has the kids," he added, with a
smothered chuckle.

"Hum! Well, maybe you're right, my man," said Moll, after a moment's
silence, during which she sat twirling the fringes of her old red shawl.
"I'm willin' to stand by you in this business, as I've done in others
afore now," she added meaningly, while her better half scowled at her,
and muttered under his breath something that was hardly complimentary;
"but if trouble comes o't, as it will, or my name's not Moll Harris, you
can't say as I didn't warn you, like a wife should."

"Shut up!" commanded Joe gruffly; but as this was a frequent and
favourite remark of his, Moll did not take the trouble to resent it.

Then he changed his tune, and continued in an eager undertone,--

"They'll make the fortune o' the company, Moll, old girl, will them
kids! The little chap's just at the best age to train for the tight-rope
an' the trapeze. An' the lass, with her yeller curls an' big eyes same's
a wax doll's--my, just you picter the crowds she'll draw, trippin'
round so pretty-like with Bruno at her foot! Can't you see the big bills
an' posters starin' at you from every wall, flarin' out o' every
winder:--

     "'_The Wonderful Child Acrobat! The Most Marvellous Aeronaut of the
     Age! Little Boy-Butterfly, and Bambo the Musical Dwarf!_

     "'_Sweet Sissy Sunnylocks, and Bruno the Performing Bear!_

    "'_Countless other attractions! Come one, come all,
    To the Satellite Company's Variety Hall!_'

"What do you think o' that, Moll, my lady? That'll empty folk's pockets,
or Joe Harris is mistaken for once in his life. My, this _is_ a stroke
o' luck!" and Mr. Harris rubbed his dirty hands together and laughed
gleefully. "We've been on the lookout for a couple o' youngsters this
many a day; now we've hit upon them at last. A bear an' a dwarf's all
very well, but there's nothin' that touches the hearts an' reaches the
coins o' an audience like a kid, especially if it has got great
innercent eyes an' golden hair!"

"Oh, it's mighty fine for _you_, no doubt," said Moll angrily. "You'll
eat an' drink your fill, an' dress up in fine clo'es o' an off evenin'
to go rollickin' about an' enjoy yourself. But what good'll it do _me_,
I'd like to know?" she asked shrilly. "I share yer dirty work, I know,
but precious little else; just grub, grub away all the year roun', with
never a bit o' pleasure, nor a stitch o' handsome things to my back!"

"I'll give you a silk gownd, Moll, I declare I will, if this bold
venture turns out for us what I expect--whatever colour you please; only
say the word," said Mr. Harris grandly.

"I'd like claret--a nice bright claret with plenty o' lace, an' that
shiny trimmin' wi' tinsel through it," admitted Moll, beginning to
recover her good humour, and flashing a smiling glance into the squinty
eye fixed somewhere about her forehead. "Ay, an' what else?" she
demanded, determined to take full advantage of her husband's unusually
bland mood.

"I'll buy you a gold ring too, my girl--one o' them real shiners,"
promised Joe, thinking that as he was in for the penny he might as well
pledge himself to the pound. "Ah! that makes you sit up, I'm thinkin',"
and the generous man gave his wife a playful poke in the ribs.

"Reely an' truly, Joe, fair an' square? A true di'mon', an' none o' your
sham bits o' glass?" cried Moll in ecstasy.

"Fair an' square, my woman; a real di'mon' as big's a pea, Moll. There's
my hand on't, if you just help me through wi' this little business. You
can, you know, if you like."

"So help me bob!" said Moll quite solemnly, and the well-matched pair
shook hands over their guilty compact. And thus Moll, who in her better
moods might have befriended the children, pledged herself, for sake of
vanity and greed, to work her hardest for their undoing.

Twilight was drawing in when the canal-boat stopped at Engleton, the
last stage on the journey before reaching Barchester. It was a tiny
village, nestling at the foot of a range of undulating hills that rose,
plateau after plateau, until their summits seemed to meet the sky. The
wharf was crowded as usual at that slack evening hour. And in the babel
of voices, banging of boxes, shifting of stuff, and general confusion,
our little travellers, rested and refreshed by their long sleep and the
remainder of the provisions which they had consumed in the cabin, had no
difficulty in stealing off the boat and away from the wharf without
attracting any notice, except from two persons, a man and woman--Joe
Harris and his wife Moll, who did not lose sight of them for a moment,
but followed hard upon their heels.

"Look, Joan!" cried Darby, as they turned their faces towards the hills.
"See, we're near the Happy Land now!" and the lad pointed to the golden
radiance that glowed in the sky and bathed the peaks behind which the
sun had only lately sunk from sight. "That's the light from the city.
They've opened the gates because they know we're coming.

"Hurry, lovey! Here, take my arm. That's what father used to say when
mother was tired; I 'member quite well. It's just a little bit further
now. In one of my Sunday books there's a picture of Christian climbing a
hill that led to the City Beautiful. The Hill Difficulty it was called.
I expect this is it. Come on, Joan; we're almost there! Then we'll never
be tired any more, but 'reign, reign for aye.'"

At that moment the children heard steps behind them, and looked round to
see, only a few yards away, an ugly red-haired man, with a curious
crooked eye and evil face, and a tall, sturdy woman with gleaming teeth,
dusky locks, and crimson cheeks. He had seen them before, Darby
remembered all at once, hanging about the back gate at Copsley Farm one
day when he was peeping from the skylight in the stable loft. They must
be the gipsies who had been haunting Copsley Wood; and the brave boy
drew his sister closer to his side, as if with his own small body he
would shield her from all harm.

"Good-evenin', my little dears," spoke the man's gruff voice right above
Darby's head.

"Good-evening," answered the boy courteously, at the same time
instinctively putting up his hand in order to raise his hat in the
direction of Moll's flashing eyes. But there was no hat there, so he
gave her a military salute instead.

"My, you are a rum un!" laughed the lady, looking admiringly upon the
charming child.--"You're right, as usual, Joe Harris," she whispered,
turning to her husband. "Them's the style for the Satellite Company! The
silk gownd an' the shiner's mine; you can buy them soon's you please."

So saying, Moll snatched the screaming Joan clean out of her brother's
encircling arms, raised her to her breast, and completely smothered the
frightened child's sobs in the folds of her old scarlet shawl.

The after-glow had faded from out the west; the hilltops seemed bare and
brown. The gates of the city were closed, thought Darby, and his lips
quivered in disappointment as they had not done from fright. The moon
now sailed slowly on her way through a placid sea of pearly sky. Her
beams flooded the fields with a soft, pure radiance; they lingered over
the sluggish waters of the canal until they shone with light and
borrowed beauty. Everything was quiet; all around was peace.

Darby boldly stood his ground, and manfully faced his foes. Yet, with
the wicked countenance of Joe Harris bending over him, with Joan's
stifled cries beating in his ears, it was impossible to do anything more
than _seem_ brave; and the plucky little lad's face blanched paler than
the moonbeams, while his heart stood still with nameless fear.




CHAPTER VIII.

BAMBO AND BRUNO.

    "'Will you walk into my parlour?' said the spider to the fly;
    ''Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy.
    The way into the parlour is up a winding stair,
    And I have many curious things to show when you are there.'"

                                      MARY HOWITT.


"An' where may you an' little missy be goin' at this time o' the
evenin'?" asked Thieving Joe, in a voice which he intended should be
pleasant and reassuring; for now that he had come close to the
children--looked in Joan's face, and witnessed Darby's brave, proud
bearing--he knew Moll was right: that these were no common brats, as he
had called them, no rustics running wild from morn till night, but
_somebody's_ little ones, gently born undoubtedly, carefully reared
unmistakably.

At the first blush of this discovery Mr. Harris felt that perhaps he had
been a trifle rash--that it might have been wiser to give more heed to
his wife's advice; but since he had got his captives secure at last, he
was not going to be such a fool as to set them free after waiting and
watching so long for a similar opportunity. He would safeguard himself
as cunningly as possible against the chances of being detected in his
crime, and that was all Joe Harris possessed in the way of a conscience;
that was what constituted the chief difference to him between right and
wrong--the cowardly yet restraining fear of being found out. Then, if
the worst did come to the worst, he would swear that he had not stolen
the children, but had accidentally come upon them wandering about at
nightfall alone, and out of charity took them temporarily under his
protection. Their friends would be deeply grateful, and doubtless reward
him handsomely, so that he should be none the poorer, no matter which
way the little enterprise turned out.

He judged correctly that Darby would be more easily led than driven, and
he did not want to frighten him, not just at first--that would be time
enough afterwards, or if he turned rusty--so he spoke to the little lad
as smoothly as he knew how. But genuine gentle speech cannot be assumed
at will. It is not a mannerism merely put on, but an outcome of kindly
acts and pure thoughts; and Darby was quick to detect the false quality
in Joe's tones as he repeated his question,--

"Come now, won't you tell me, an' this nice lady here, where the pair o'
ye was bound for so late in the day?"

For a moment the boy hesitated, looking straight at his questioner. How
could he tell this dreadful man the truth? and it did not occur to him
to trump up a story or put him off with a half-truth, as some children
might have done.

"We're going on a journey, my sister and I," said the lad simply.

Then he closed his lips tightly, and his sweet little mouth was set in a
new resolute curve. He would not speak of the Happy Land to this odd
pair, who had thrust themselves so unexpectedly and so rudely where they
were not wanted. They might laugh at him, and who enjoys being laughed
at, or having their plans and dreams ridiculed and scattered in shreds
before their very eyes?

"It's late for ye to be out by yerselves," continued Joe. "Aren't ye
frightened for the dark?"

"Oh no," replied Darby readily; "_that_ never frightens us. God is in
the dark as well as in the light, and He always takes care of us."

"Ahem!" and Joe coughed awkwardly, not knowing what to say. He was not
used to replying to such remarks.

By this time Joan had hushed her sobs to listen to the conversation. She
wriggled uneasily under the confining shawl; and hearing that she was
quiet, Moll allowed the little thing to sit up in her arms and look
about her.

At this point Joe made a movement of impatience, which Moll understood.
He was in haste to push on, for it would soon be dark, and he was hungry
for his supper.

Moll frowned at him. She wanted to work things in her own way, and she
understood that little people don't like to be hurried.

"Aren't you afeard to be out on this lonesome place so late, my pretty?"
she asked in a sugar-sweet voice, turning a beaming face upon Joan.

"No--I's never f'ightened of dark, or dogs, or fings," she said, drawing
somewhat back from the bold face so near her own; "but I's sometimes
f'ightened for peoples. I's f'ightened for you, some, and I's awful
f'ightened for _him_," added Joan in a whisper, pointing her tiny
finger in the direction of Mr. Harris, who was busily engaged in
lighting his pipe.

Moll scowled, and gave the little girl a slight shake.

"You're frightened, are you?" and she laughed wickedly. "All the same,
the pair o' ye'll have to come along o' us. We'll see ye safe to yer
journey's end. Ye might meet tramps or gipsies, or--oh, I don't know
what all! They'd pop ye into a bag an' carry ye away wi' them."

"Isn't you tramps an' gipsies--you an' _him_?" asked Joan innocently.
"Will you put us in a bag an' carry us away wif you?"

"There! take that for yer impidence," and Moll dealt the child a smart
slap on her delicate cheek, which made the little one wince with pain
and terror. "Tramps an' gipsies indeed! I'll learn you another lesson,
I'm thinkin', afore you're many days older."

"Well done, my lass!" cried her husband proudly, for Moll was rising to
the occasion even better than he had expected. She had a soft spot
somewhere in her heart, had Moll, although it was pretty well crusted
over with wickedness and worldliness, and sometimes she seemed a little
disgusted with Joe and his shady ways. She could do very well when she
chose, however. She was, when she pleased, an out-and-out helpmeet, and
now she was excelling herself. It was the prospect of the claret silk
and the diamond ring, her better half believed.

"How dare you slap my sister?" cried Darby, darting forward with
flashing eyes and crimson cheeks, and laying violent hands on Moll's
gown. But Mr. Harris pulled him roughly off, clapping upon the boy's
quivering lips a great, dirty, grimy hand.

"Darby! Darby! make her let me go!" Joan cried piteously; but Darby was
powerless to come to the rescue. "Don't you know," she continued,
addressing her captor, "we're goin' to the Happy Land? Didn't Darby tell
you? Well, we are; an' if we doesn't hurry fast, we won't find our way
to-night."

"Indeed! An' does yer pa an' yer ma know where ye are?" asked Moll
curiously, seeing that Joan was freer with her tongue than her brother.

"We never had no pa an' ma. We once had a faver an' a muver," Joan
admitted, "if them's what you mean. But muver's away livin' wif God, an'
daddy's gone in the big, big ship over the sea, an' lefted Darby an' me
all alone," she added, in a piteous little whine. "Daddy's a
solger-man, an' wears a wed coat an' a shiny sword."

Mr. Harris heard this statement with feelings of relief. So he was right
after all: the kids were practically orphans. Their friends, if they had
any, must be mighty careless, argued Joe, and he could do with his
captives as he pleased, and nobody bother much about them--unless the
Tommy from Africa should turn up some fine day. But there were so many
chances against that contingency that it was not worth thinking about.

"Ay, an' it's for the Happy Land ye're bound!" he cried in ridicule.
"Well, it's a goodish bit from here, so we'd best be movin'. I'm about
tired o' this foolin', anyway, an' I'm wantin' my supper. Come on!" and
he gripped Darby's delicate little hand more tightly than before.

"Let me go!" demanded the boy indignantly. "We don't know you, and we
don't want to go with you.--Sure we don't, Joan?"

"No, no!" wailed Joan. "I doesn't want to go nowhere 'cept back. An' I
wants Miss Carolina an' my supper, an' my own dear comfy cwib," she
added, feeling, for once in her life, that it would not be entirely
disagreeable to be put to bed.

"You hear that," pleaded Darby. "Please put her down. She'll only tire
you, because she's very solid for her size; I sometimes carry her
myself. _Please!_ We're not a bit afraid, and we haven't far to go now,"
he added, glancing up toward the brow of the hill, which was now flooded
with moonlight. And as he saw how short was the distance to its
summit--although, alas! the shortness was only seeming--his heart
bounded with gladness and relief; for in spite of his courageous
bearing, poor Darby was dreadfully afraid. All the stray stories and
ridiculous remarks--many of them never meant for his ears--that he had
ever heard concerning highwaymen, robbers, tramps, poachers, foreigners,
and wicked people generally, came crowding to his memory thick and fast,
and for the first time since they had fled from Firgrove he began to
wish himself safely back there once more.

Moll made no answer. She glanced around to make sure that no straggler
was near who could by any chance have heard Joan's cries. Then she
swathed the child's head in her shawl again, and, with Joe striding in
front and Darby dragging at his heel, the party set off at a rapid rate,
which sorely tried Darby's short, tired legs, sturdy though they were.
But notwithstanding the smartness of their pace, they did not seem to
come much nearer to the top of the hill.

The winding road upon which the travellers had set their faces, after
turning their backs on Engleton, had by this time dwindled into a narrow
bridle-path. And as they proceeded, it too gradually disappeared until
it was completely lost in the wide stretch of hilly land, half heather,
half scrubby grass, that spread all around them as far as Darby could
see.

All at once Joe stopped, and looked anxiously away in front, round the
base of the hill.

"They were to halt hereabouts," he muttered to his wife, "but I don't
see a sign o' them. Do you, Moll? you've allus had sharp sight."

Moll swept the landscape with a glance quick and keen as a hawk's. Then,
without speaking, she pointed with her finger to a spot about half a
mile off where the ground dipped slightly and formed a sort of hollow,
sheltered on the far side by a clump of stunted firs.

Darby had followed the direction of Moll's large forefinger with his
gaze. After a little he made out quite plainly, rising against the clear
sky beyond the low-lying ground, a faint trail of blue-gray smoke; and
lower down, considerably below the smoke, there shone a small spot of
light which winked intermittently through the gathering gloom, as if
behind it there blinked a very sleepy star.

"Ay, that's the caravan, sure enough," said Joe, in a tone of
satisfaction. "My, Moll, you are a cute un, an' no mistake!--Come on, my
young shaver; step out the best you know, for I'm wantin' some supper, I
can tell you!"

"But we're not going that way," said Darby, trying to withdraw his hand
from the vice-like grip in which it was held.--"Please put Joan down,
ma'am," he begged, turning to Moll. "I'm much obliged to you for
carrying her so far. Our way lies up the hill and yours down," continued
the child, bending his grave, innocent eyes upon the woman's hardened
countenance. "So you see we must part here," he added, with a brave
attempt at a smile.

"Must we?" and Joe Harris laughed harshly. "Look here, my chick," said
he, with an ugly leer, "you're comin' wi' us; that's settled, so you may
stow yer cheek an' hurry up, or it'll be the worse for you!"

"You stop, Joe," whispered Moll angrily, nudging her husband with her
elbow. "You'll frighten the little un, then she'll make a row, an'
somebody'll hear her. Leave them to me.--Don't mind the gentleman,
ducky," she continued, addressing Darby. "He's fond o' sayin' funny
things; that's his way. Do you see the smoke an' the light yonder?" she
asked, pointing in the direction of the caravan. "Well, that's our
house--the purtiest little house that ever you seed; an' when we gets
home there'll be some nice goody-goody supper for us. You come along,
sensible and quiet, an' you an' little missy here'll both get share.
Then after supper there's heaps an' heaps o' cur'osities for you to look
at. Our house is jest chock-full up wi' funny things."

Darby was in a difficulty. Moll certainly spoke very fair. He _was_
hungry, notwithstanding the refreshments he had consumed in the cabin of
the _Smiling Jane_, and the prospect of something savoury was
undoubtedly tempting. Then he dearly loved looking at things--odds and
ends, picked up here and there, such as he imagined Moll's house
contained. Joan was in a deep sleep, with her golden head pillowed on
Mrs. Harris's broad shoulder. There would be no use in waking her up;
she would only begin to cry. Darby was weary himself, too--so weary that
he would fain have flung his little body down on the heath where he
stood and slept some of his weariness away.

But the Happy Land! Would it not be better to hurry on, late though it
was? They would be sure to get in if they knocked loud enough and gave
their names at the gate. Then they could rest as long as they pleased,
with nothing to disturb or frighten them any more, and live always good
and happy--"blest, blest for aye."

These thoughts flashed through Darby's busy brain very fast. Then he
answered Moll in his direct, simple way.

"No, thank you," he said; "you are very kind, but we must be getting on
our way. I will carry Joan," he added, with a tired little gasp, looking
apprehensively up the long stretch of rough ground rising right in
front, and the now gloomy hilltop, above which heavy black clouds hung,
like the curtain of night about to descend and smother them in its
sombre folds.

"You can go on yer journey when you've rested a bit," coaxed the cunning
woman. "Or in the mornin'," she added; "that 'ud be best. You'd lose yer
way in the dark, sartin sure. I'll give you an' missy one o' the nice
beds that's in my house, where ye'll sleep soun' as tops. Then after
ye've had yer breakfasts in the mornin' ye'll start; an' my, ye'll be
there--wherever ye're goin'--in a jiffy! What do you think o' that?"

"Well, perhaps, since you are so very kind as to invite us to supper and
to stay for the night, and my sister seems so very tired--perhaps your
plan might be best," said Darby slowly. Then he added quickly, "But are
you sure you'll let us go when we want to in the morning--first thing
after breakfast?"

"Sure's anythin'," declared Moll unblushingly. "Mr. Harris himself
here'll put ye on the road.--Won't you, Joe?" asked Moll, with a sly
laugh.

"Sartin," answered Joe promptly. "I've never bin in the Happy Land
myself, but I'm familiar wi' the way there. I'll start the kids for it
right enough, you bet," and the ugly man winked at his wife knowingly.

On the strength of these false promises Darby agreed to accept the
hospitality of Mr. and Mrs. Harris for the night. But he did not see the
glances of triumph, greed, cunning, and cruelty which passed between the
pair; and if he had, the single-hearted child would not have understood
their significance.

It was a strange scene on which Darby Dene's eyes rested when the party
halted at the hollow where the Satellite Circus Company had made their
headquarters for the night. Within the shelter of the firs a fire of
crackling sticks was burning brightly. Hanging over the flame, suspended
by an iron chain from the centre of three crossed metal bars, swung a
big black pot, from which there came such a savoury smell that, in spite
of his disappointment over the break in their journey, Darby could not
help thinking it a lucky thing that they were going to get a share. A
lad of about twelve years old was feeding the fire from a pile of dry
branches that lay by his side--a lad with short woolly curls, shining,
gleaming white teeth, thick lips, and a skin as dark as if he had been
blackleaded all over. He was a negro, Darby knew. He had seen a black
man only once before, and he now stared at this boy as if he could not
remove his gaze. The lad's clothes, too, were queer. He had on a dingy
purple velvet jacket, covered with frayed gold lace, tawdry tinsel
braid, tarnished gilt buttons, with long, wide red and white striped
cotton trousers, from which his dusky ankles and bare flat feet flopped
about like the fins of some great ungainly fish.

Squatted on the grass, on the further side of the fire from the black
boy, was a small figure which Darby at first thought was that of a
child. But when at the sound of Joe Harris's footsteps it rose, moved
slowly close to the crossbars, stood on tiptoe, lifted the lid, peered
into the steaming pot, _then_--with the firelight falling full upon
it--he saw that this was not a child; it was a man.

But what sort of a man? Was he a _real_ man, or only a make-believe,
such as was sometimes seen at shows and fairs? Darby knew about dwarfs,
certainly, although he had never seen one, and at last he concluded that
this must be a dwarf--this small creature not much taller than Joan, yet
with a huge, broad-shouldered body, square and solid as Moll's own,
overgrown head, covered with a thick mop of heavy dark hair, pale, sad
face, weary eyes, short, stunted legs, large feet, and the longest arms,
the thinnest hands Darby had ever seen in all his life. This was
Bambo--Bambo, Mr. Harris's musical dwarf! and the boy shrank
instinctively behind the shelter of Moll's ample skirts, scarcely
knowing whether he was more attracted or repelled by the ungainly body,
which, as the little ones discovered somewhat later on, housed such a
beautiful soul within.

But what is that beside the dwarf--that great, soft-looking object that
is just for all the world like a big brown furry bundle, with a tiny,
chattering, jabbering monkey, decked out in all the bravery of scarlet
coat and jaunty forage cap, perched on top of it? Darby steals forward
step by step to get a closer view. The bundle of fur unrolls itself,
grunts and turns over as if quite ready for a frolic with its queer
comrade, and the little lad leaps back in terror. For it is a bear,
gaunt and grizzly, with funny snout and blinking eyes!

Darby did not notice that the monster was chained, and he moved back
again behind Moll, whence he gazed fascinated upon the grotesque group,
over which the leaping flames cast such weird and curious lights and
shadows.

The gaudy yellow caravan was drawn up on one side, and with the screen
of trees served as an effective background to the scene. The skinny
piebald horses had been unloosed from its shafts, freed of their
harness, and, with rude fetters on their legs, turned adrift to seek
their supper among the coarse grass and springy heather spreading so
bountifully around them upon every side.




CHAPTER IX.

THE NEXT MORNING.

    "Oh, my heart grows weak as a woman's,
      And the fountain of feeling will flow
    When I think of the paths, steep and stony,
      That the feet of the dear ones must go.

    "Oh, those truants from earth and from heaven,
      They have made me more manly and mild;
    And I know now how Jesus could liken
      The kingdom of God to a child!"

                            CHARLES DICKENS.


Roughly the spell of the picture was broken by the loud voice of Joe
Harris.

"Hillao!" he cried, by way of general greeting to the troupe around the
fire.--"Any grub ready, Bambo?"

The dwarf glanced round from the pot which he was carefully stirring
with a long-handled wooden spoon, and then Darby noticed how gentle was
the expression of his deep-set eyes.

"Yes," he answered, in a curious, husky voice, thin and vibrating;
"supper has been ready an hour and more. It's done to rags by this time,
I'm afraid. We thought, from what you said, that you would have been
here long before now," he added, speaking more correctly than Mr. Harris
himself--differently, somehow, from what one would have expected from
his uncouth appearance.

"So we should, only we were delayed by business--_important_ business,"
said Mr. Harris grandly, "and a good stroke o't, I can tell you! See
what we've brought wi' us, Bambo--the missis an' me," he explained,
pointing to the children, who were seated side by side upon the grass,
for Moll had retired within the caravan. Joan was awake now and sobbing
wildly, while Darby was doing his utmost to soothe her by every artifice
of which he was master.

"Who are these children, and why have you brought them here?" demanded
the dwarf sternly, as he left his stew-pot and came over beside the
frightened little creatures, who clung to each other as if for dear
life. "Have you been at your thieving tricks again, Joe Harris?" he
asked angrily, yet there was an expression of keen anxiety in the kindly
gaze he bent upon the captives.

"Come, now, none o' your cheek!" growled the ruffian savagely, though
his eye fell before the dwarf's straight look and meaning tone. "Who are
they, you're askin'?" he went on in a milder voice. "Why, jest two
beggar brats we found wanderin' on the hillside. As to _what_ they are,
you'll see by-an'-by," he added, with a satisfied chuckle. "Look ee here
now, Bambo," he continued, trying to be conciliatory, "there's no use in
turnin' crusty. Haven't I learned you long ago that Joe Harris isn't the
man to put up wi' no nonsense? All right, that's settled, then. Now,
don't you think we've run this company on narrow lines long enough?
Anyway I do, an' we're goin' to widen them--to strike out on fresh ones.
What would you say to a tight-rope dancer an' a trapeze performer added
to the attractions o' the troupe, eh?"

But the dwarf made no reply; he only continued to watch the
pathetic-looking little pair, as with kisses and caresses they bravely
strove to comfort one another.

"Wouldn't that boy be the very thing for it?" resumed Joe, after a
moment's pause. "Isn't he jest the cut for an aeronaut, an' the right
age to train as an acrobat? An' the gel! Look ee here!" and roughly
snatching Joan from her seat at Darby's side, Joe swung her over to
where the big furry bundle, which was the bear, and the mimic
soldier--tired probably from their recent gambols--lay huddled in a heap
together, and dropped her down on the grass beside them.

"Here, Bruno, get up," he shouted, giving the creature a heavy kick with
his coarse boot. "Rise, sir, an' salute your new playfellow."

The bear growled, stirred, and with a lazy stretch of his big body
slowly rose upon his hind legs and approached his master; while the
monkey climbed, chattering and jabbering, to the roof of the caravan.

Darby and the dwarf had followed close at Joe's heel; and when the boy
saw the huge beast, with sparkling eyes and slavering mouth, tower right
above his little sister and heard her screams of terror, he felt, just
for a moment, sick with fear.

"You brute!" exclaimed the dwarf, in his thin, hoarse voice, as he
reached up his long arms and firmly gripped Bruno by the leather collar
which was round his neck. But whether he addressed the man or the beast
was not quite clear, and certainly Joe Harris did not care to inquire.

Joan had flung herself in her panic on Darby's shoulder, with her small,
wet face buried in the bosom of his old velveteen blouse. The awful
faint feeling passed from him at the touch of those clinging arms around
his neck, and with indignant eyes and flushed cheeks he turned and faced
the great, ugly bully, who only laughed, as if enjoying the sight of
their distress.

"How dare you frighten my sister so?" he demanded haughtily. "Why did
you bring us here if you only wanted to be rude to us? You are cruel,
and a coward as well; for my father says that only cowards would try to
frighten children or helpless things. Wait until I go home," said the
little fellow boldly, forgetting in his excitement that he had
deliberately left home for altogether, "and I shall tell him about you.
Then you'll be punished as you deserve," he added loftily.

But as Darby uttered this threat a wave of memory swept over him with an
overwhelming rush. Father! what could _he_ do to help or deliver them,
away in Africa, or maybe lying dead somewhere? Joe and Moll might
ill-treat them as they chose before father should be able to interfere.
And mother! Father in Africa or killed, mother in heaven! and with one
bitter, thrilling cry the boy's brave spirit gave way, and he sank
unconscious at Joe Harris's feet.

Mr. Harris gave expression to his amusement in a whistle.

"That's capital!" he cried; "the best piece o' actin' I've seed this
many's the day! Eh, Bambo, what do you think o' _that_ for an amatoor?
Why, it 'ud bring down the house, I declare!"

But Bambo did not answer, not by so much as a single glance. He was
crouching on the grass beside the boy.

Then Joe shoved the sobbing Joan aside, stooped over the limp figure of
the child, and satisfied himself that he had only fainted. Afterwards he
followed his wife within the caravan, whistling gaily as he went.

Tonio, the negro lad, slid near the group, and with wide, rolling eyes
stared at Darby's motionless form and white face. Bruno had rolled
himself up again comfortably, and was preparing to resume his nap just
where he had left off when his master so rudely aroused him. Joan had
hushed her sobs, although now and again a long, shuddering sigh shook
her little body from head to foot, as with small, smudgy fingers she
gently stroked her brother's cheek. Puck, the monkey, had skipped nimbly
from his perch on the chimney of the caravan and found another more to
his mind on top of Tonio's woolly head, where he sat glowering and
grinning at the group, as if he wanted to ask, only he couldn't in
words, "What's the matter, friends? what's to do?"

Bambo raised the boy from the grass, pillowed the drooping head against
his own broad shoulder, chafed his hands, and put some water to his
lips, which Tonio carried from the spring that bubbled up from out the
mossy ground beneath the fir trees. Soon he recovered, and was able to
sit up in the dwarf's arms and look about him.

Then he remembered everything--where he was, what had happened--and his
face grew white again.

"There, there, sonny, don't fret any more; and don't cry, either of
you," added Bambo, gently laying one long, lean arm around Joan's
shoulder. "If you do you'll make the master angry, and maybe he'll beat
you. You needn't be afraid of Bruno; he's perfectly quiet, except when
he's angered: besides, he's chained."

"Are you quite, quite sure?" asked Joan timidly, glancing nervously in
the direction of the bear.

"Certain, positive!" answered Bambo, smiling into the eager faces raised
so confidingly to his, while an odd, unaccustomed thrill stirred his
pulse and warmed his heart. "If you look you'll see where the chain
that's attached to his collar is fastened to the back of the caravan."

"And will the monkey bite us?" again asked the little one.

"Puck! Puck bite! Why no, bless your heart!" and this time the dwarf
actually laughed. "Puck's about as old as Methuselah, and hasn't got a
tooth in his head! He'll maybe pull your hair if he takes the notion,
and that's the worst Puck 'll do to you.

"Hark! there's master calling," cried Bambo, shuffling to his feet as a
roar resounded from the caravan like the growling of a lion near
feeding-time. "Sit there, and I'll bring you some of my stew. It's made
of pheasant and partridge, and very nice, I assure you."

"There, fellow, that'll do," shouted Joe, standing on the steps of the
caravan; "you've palavered plenty over them brats. Leave them to howl
theirselves to sleep if they like, but bring me my supper," he commanded
angrily--for Mr. Harris was hungry, and somebody who knows about such
things says that "a hungry man is an angry man"--then with a bang of the
door and an ugly word he disappeared again. And as the dwarf dished up
the supper he muttered to himself,--

"God help you, poor innocents! You have fallen into bad hands when you
fell into the clutches of Moll Harris and Thieving Joe!"

He carried a plateful of dainty morsels out of his stew to where the
children waited far back beyond the firelight and the limit of the
bear's chain. He sat on the grass beside them, coaxing and scolding them
by turns, until they forgot their fears and made a hearty supper,
finished off by a draught of sparkling water from the spring.

Just at first the tiny man with the long arms, pale, sad face, and queer
croaking voice had alarmed the little ones, because they had never seen
any one the least like Bambo before. But when they discovered how gentle
was the touch of those thin hands and bony arms, how kind and soothing
the tones of that croaky voice, all their fears vanished. Darby
determined that he would never again listen to unkind remarks about
deformed persons, and Joan cuddled close beside her new friend in a most
confiding fashion.

"Why has you taken no goody supper?" she asked him when all had
finished, and the fire had sunk to a glow of red embers mixed with
feathery flakes of ash. "Isn't you hungry? or did you take too big a
tea?"

"Well, little one, I don't think I did. I'm just not hungry to-night.
Grown-up folks don't usually be so keen-set as youngsters, you know,"
replied Bambo, looking down into the blue eyes that scanned him so
curiously.

"But _you_ isn't a grown-up," cried the child, in an amused tone.
"You're just 'bout as big as Darby, only with a queer man-face an'
grown-up arms. Does you call yourself a boy or a man?" she asked
seriously, and without a hint of mockery. She merely desired
information.

"Joan!" said Darby, in a distressed whisper, at the same time giving her
a dig with his elbow, almost pushing her over.

Joan was going to make a fuss, when Bambo put in quickly, "Hush, missy!
you mustn't do that, or Moll will hear you. Let me try to answer your
question, although I hardly know how. I'm only a boy in size, as you
say--a small boy; yet in years I am a man, for I was four-and-twenty
last May, the tenth of May," he added thoughtfully. "But I'm not a man
as other men.--And you need not mind your sister saying that I'm not
grown up," he continued, laying a thin hand on Darby's dark head, "for
neither I am--leastways not like other folks.--I'm a dwarf, dearies--a
poor, stunted bit of a thing like yon fir over yonder that has grown
this way, that way, and every way except straight up and down like the
rest of the trees about it. I'm Bambo the dwarf, Joe Harris's musical
dwarf," and the little man laughed whimsically.

"Maybe I'll be different in the next world," he continued, after a
moment's silence, which the children did not break, as they could think
of nothing suitable to say, therefore tactfully held their peace. "I
hope I shall, I _believe_ I shall," he added, with a far-away look in
his eyes, as if he had become unconscious of his audience; "for has not
the blessed Lord Himself said, 'Behold, I make all things new'?"

Here he was seized with a violent fit of coughing, which shook his poor
frame sadly, and left him panting and spent.

"You's got a werry bad cold," said Joan, with a pretty air of concern.
"Can't you take some nashty medicine or sticky sweeties or cough drops
to make you better?"

"Our nurse or our aunt always rubs us with stuff called 'lyptus, and
sometimes puts a poultice on when we've got cold," Darby remarked. "I
don't s'pose they'll have any 'lyptus in the caravan; but wouldn't you
try the poultice?"

"Ay, sonny; only it wouldn't do me any good. I never was used with
physic or poulticing; and I'll be better soon without anything,"
answered the dwarf, trying to stifle another fit of coughing lest it
should distress the little ones. "I'll be quite well, in fact--before
long, too," he added softly, with his shrunken face raised to the sky
whence, with shining, sleepless eyes, the stars looked down upon the odd
little group as if they were God's sentinels guarding the outposts where
danger lurked.

"P'raps you shouldn't sit on the grass; it's usually damp at night,"
said Darby, in that quaint, old-world way of his which always attracted
people greatly even when it most amused them. "Nurse doesn't allow us to
sit on the grass when we're not well.--Sure she doesn't, Joan?"

"Never, never!" Joan affirmed solemnly, shaking her tangled golden head.

The dwarf got to his feet.

"Very well; I'll have to obey, I suppose," he said with a smile. "Now, I
must find out where you two are to be put up for the night. It's high
time you were under shelter. This sort of thing," he went on, waving his
hand towards the open space, the caravan, the dying fire, and the
chained bear, "is not what you're used to; anybody with half an eye
could see that--even Joe, although it suits his purpose to pretend he
doesn't. To-morrow you'll tell me all about your home and your people,
and how you wandered this way, and everything. Then we'll see what's to
be done next," he added under his breath.

Moll carried the children off to the caravan, where Mr. Harris was
already sleeping the sound sleep which is generally supposed to be the
outcome of an easy conscience. She was about to bundle them, clothes and
all, into a bed hastily spread upon what to Darby looked like a narrow
shelf. He was too sleepy to offer any objections to the arrangement; but
Joan stoutly resisted, declaring that she never went to bed without
being undressed and saying her prayers.

"Boo-oo!" she wailed, putting her knuckles into her eyes. "I wants a
nightgown, and I wants to say my p'ayers," she persisted.

"Shut up, will you!" ordered Moll, giving the little girl a rude shake.
She would have slapped her, only she dared not disturb her better half,
for then the blows might have gone round. "I ha'n't got no nightgownd
for ee," she went on, in an angry undertone; "but ee can take off yer
frock an' wrap the shawl roun' ee." Which Joan proceeded to do,
although she felt that nurse's old tartan shoulder-shawl was but a sorry
substitute for a nightgown.

"Now I's goin' to say my p'ayers," she said, kneeling on the bare floor
at this prayerless woman's knee, with closed eyes and piously-folded
hands--a pathetic little figure in her comical attire. "You'll say the
big words and join in the 'amen.' That's what nurse does. Is you ready?
Now--

    "Gentle Jesus, meek'n mild,
    Look upon a ickle child,
    Pity my--'I can't say it!'--
    Suffer me to come to Thee.

    "Fain I would to Thee be brought;
    Dea'est Lord, forbid it not;
    In the kin'dom of Thy gwace
    Give a ickle Joan a place. Amen!"

After the "amen" Joan opened her big blue eyes and looked steadily at
Moll without rising from her knees. The woman fidgeted on her seat,
toyed with the amber beads on her neck, but she would not meet the pure
gaze fixed upon her; for there was a tremulousness about her lips, a
moisture in her eyes, a sense of ashamedness all over her which she did
not wish the child to see.

But Joan _did_ see, and vaguely understood that here there was somewhat
amiss, and forthwith proceeded to offer her sympathy after her own
fashion, which, when all is said, is about the oldest and sweetest form
that sympathy can take. Silently she got to her feet, climbed on Moll's
lap, and laid a kiss--light as a snowflake, holy as a benediction,
pregnant as a prayer--upon the woman's broad, sunburnt brow. Then she
tumbled on to the shelf beside Darby, and soon both were wrapped in the
deep, dreamless sleep of wearied childhood.

A few hours afterwards quite an air of stir and bustle pervaded the
encampment. The crossbars for the support of pots and pans were taken
down; scattered utensils were gathered up and stowed away; Bruno was
driven into his cage under the body of the van; the wandering horses
were caught, harnessed, and put in their places; and soon the Satellite
Circus Company was on the move once more. For Joe and Moll had not
failed to observe the dwarf's openly-evinced interest in their captives;
and fearing that he might take it into his head to decamp during the
night, carrying the children along with him, they quickly made up their
minds to push on and put as many miles as the horses could cover between
them and the possibility of escape, pursuit, or capture before daylight
the next morning.

The little ones slept soundly side by side on their narrow shelf; the
bear snarled uneasily behind his iron bars, with only an inch of plank
between his hairy embrace and their soft young bodies; the monkey curled
closer into the warmth of Tonio's black breast; the dwarf sat on his
perch above the plodding piebalds, watching the stars and speculating
about the pretty children--who they were, whence they came, and what
would be their fate if left to the tender mercies of Thieving Joe and
his bold wife Moll.

It was broad daylight when Darby and Joan awoke and sat up to look about
them. For a few minutes they remembered nothing of what had occurred,
and could not make out where they were. Oh yes, of course, Darby at
length understood. They were in a caravan where they had sheltered all
night, not very far from the foot of that hill over whose summit lay the
entrance to the country which they had set out to seek.

He slid cautiously off the shelf, helped Joan to put on her frock and
tie her shawl round her again; then they opened the door, stole down the
steps, and there they paused in dismay. The caravan had come to a
standstill, and been drawn up on the edge of a stretch of dreary common;
the horses were unyoked, and grazing near by. Along the further
boundary of the common wound a broad, level highway, bordered by a wide
footpath; and in the distance, from the valley front, rose the towers,
spires, and smoking chimneys of a large-sized town. But Firgrove, Hill
Difficulty, and the Happy Land all lay behind--far, far away!




CHAPTER X.

THE HAPPY LAND.

    "Heaven lies about us in our infancy."

                              WORDSWORTH.

    "To be good is to be happy; angels
    Are happier than men because they're better."

                              ROWE.


"Now, please, Mrs. Joe, will you show Joan and me the nearest way to the
place where you found us?" asked Darby in all good faith when they had
finished their breakfast. It had been a most unusual one for them, and
not much of a treat: the bread was dry, the bacon strong smelling, the
bitter coffee guiltless of either cream or milk, and poor Joan made many
a wry face in her efforts to get it down.

"Time enough, time enough," answered Mrs. Joe cheerily, yet with a
shamefaced look. "What's yer hurry? Are you so keen to leave us, eh?"
she asked, fixing her bold, smiling eyes on the earnest countenance of
the little lad.

"No--that is--ah--not 'zactly," stammered Darby, feeling himself in a
fix between truth and politeness. "We didn't come on a visit, you know;
we came only for the night. And you promised to let us go this morning
after breakfast, and to show us the way."

Molly only laughed, looking this way and that; but Joe began roughly,--

"Look ee here now, young Hop-o'-my-thumb, we've had enough o' this
humbug. Ye're both here, an' here ye're goin' to stay till I've done wi'
ye. Do you heed?" he shouted, gripping Darby by the shoulder and giving
him a hearty shake, while the dwarf's sunken eyes flashed with an angry
gleam.

Joan began to whimper softly into the folds of her tartan shawl, but
Darby looked from the black-browed woman to the coarse, red-haired man
with stern, reproachful eyes.

"You promised--_she_ promised," he said bravely, although his lips were
quivering piteously, and all the healthy colour had fled from his
cheeks, leaving them pale as the petals of a faded white rose.

Moll laughed again more loudly than before. Did the little softy really
believe that big folks meant everything they said? And looking into her
broadly-smiling face and unscrupulous eyes, Darby Dene had his first
lesson in the meaning of deceit. He there and then began to realize that
there are people in the world to whom falsehood comes easy, who think
little or nothing of a broken vow.

"Why do you wish us to stay with you?" he asked, turning to Joe as the
more hopeful of the two, because Joe said pretty much what he meant, and
Moll did not. "You don't love us, and of course you can't expect that we
can be very fond of you after--after--well, we know you for only such a
little while. Do please let us go," urged the child in pleading tones;
and now the big tears rolled down his cheeks and splashed in heavy
drops, like a summer shower, over the breast of his shabby velvet
blouse, while Joan sat and stared from Moll to Joe in wide-eyed silent
terror.

"Not likely!" replied Mr. Harris, with an ugly laugh. "You're goin' to
begin yer eddication, my son, an' little missy here too. So now shut up,
an' let's have no more o' yer blubb'rin'. Ye're goin' to do as I bid ye,
or if ye don't I'll manage to learn ye, I'm thinkin'. Eh?" he cried,
playfully pinching Joan's small pink ear until she screamed with pain,
then glancing from face to face of the party gathered around the fagot
fire, fingering idly at the same time the heavy whip in his belt with
which he kept Bruno to his tasks. "An' min', if ye try to slope--to run
away--well, it'll be all the worse for ye an' for anybody as helps ye,"
he added savagely, with a scowl in the direction of the dwarf, who sat a
little apart, his head leaning upon his hands, his barely-tasted
breakfast on the ground beside him.

Joe then lighted his pipe, took a gun and some rabbit-snares from the
caravan, and shouting to Tonio to look sharp, he sauntered off in the
direction of the fir plantation, with the black boy following dutifully
at his heels.

Moll shortly after retired within the caravan, where they could hear her
singing snatches of a rollicking street song as if for her own
diversion; then--with only the dwarf, the bear, and the monkey to
witness their distress--Darby and Joan threw themselves on the grass,
where, wrapped in each other's arms, they gave free vent to their
disappointment and dismay.

Bruno rolled on the ground, grunted, sat up and blinked at the children
out of his funny little slits of eyes, but he said nothing. Puck skipped
hither and thither, chattering and jabbering as if begging them to
forget their grief and crack some nuts for him instead. The dwarf sat
motionless, his head still sunk upon his hands, as if he had forgotten
their very presence, yet all the time he was watching them through his
fingers. And as soon as their sobs had subsided into long-drawn, gasping
sighs, such as the west wind makes in a wide chimney, he left his place,
and sitting down between them, put a long arm around the shoulders of
each, and drew them close beside him.

He was only a dwarf, but in his heart there were pity and love for all
creatures helpless and weaker than himself. And because of this he was
like God--_he_, Bambo the object: mean, lowly, poor, so far as money
went, yet rich in the priceless power of loving, which is beyond the
riches of gold or lands; for is not love of God? Is not God Himself the
beginning, centre, end--nay, not _end_, because it endureth for ever--of
all real, true love? And in their desolation Darby and Joan turned to
him with a feeling of confidence and hope.

"Now, I want to hear everything," he said coaxingly; "then perhaps I
shall be able to help you. You must be quick, for Joe and Tonio won't
stay long away. There's no rabbits or birds over there, I'm sure," he
continued, nodding his great head in the direction of the plantation,
"and at any moment Moll may come and interrupt us."

Then Darby told their odd new friend everything, as he had desired the
child to do--who they were, where they lived, why they had left their
home, whither they were bound, and what had befallen them upon the
journey.

"Dear, dear!" exclaimed Bambo when the recital was ended, and Darby
paused to draw a long breath. "Firgrove! Turner of Firgrove! Old Squire
Turner folks about Firdale used to call him. Why, my grandfather, Moses
Green, was gardener there once upon a time."

"And he's there yet!" declared Darby, looking highly delighted at the
discovery. "Green my aunts call him; an old, old man with white hair and
a bended back--'all 'count o' the rheumatiz,' he says."

"Ay, ay! so grandad's still alive. Deary me! deary me! Although he
always had a sort of spite at me for being as I am," added the dwarf to
himself.

"Had you never no muver?" demanded Joan curiously; "or does
funny-lookin' peoples like you just grow the way Topsy did? Topsy never
had no muver. That was 'cause she was black, I s'pose; and Tonio won't
have none either?"

"Yes, I had a mother once, missy--a good and loving mother, and a kind
grandmother too. But they are both gone this many a year ago,
and--except grandad, who doesn't count--I have neither kith nor kin in
the world."

Bambo sighed deeply, overcome by sad memories. A tear trickled slowly
down his hollow, weather-beaten cheek, and Joan put up a smudgy, gentle,
little hand to wipe it away.

"Don't be sorry, please, dear dwarf. Joan loves you; you's so kind to
Joan," she murmured.

"Couldn't _we_ be your kith and kin?" asked Darby anxiously. "I expect
by 'kith and kin' you just mean friends. We'll be your friends if you'd
like us to. We're both very fond of you already.--Aren't we, Joan?"

"Yes, werry," Joan assented warmly, continuing to caress the dwarf's
haggard face with her soft, chubby fingers.

"Bless your dear, loving little hearts!" he ejaculated fervently,
looking from one to the other of the earnest faces raised so trustfully
to his. "Them's the sweetest words that anybody has spoken to poor Bambo
this many's the day--since my mother died. _She_ always had gentle words
and sweet looks in plenty for her misshapen boy; and granny too, bless
her! But after they went and left me the world seemed all cold and
cruel, with nothing better for the likes of me than cuffs and kicks. It
was always, 'Get out of the way, you object!' 'Oh, poor wretch! how
horrid-looking he is!' or else jeers, gibes, and laughter. And since I
became a man, _this_ kind of a man, I mean," he explained, glancing from
Joan to his stunted limbs, huge feet, and claw-like hands, "it has been
harder still--harsh words and heavy blows if I did not bring in money
enough at shows and fairs. Now, I think the Lord Jesus has seen my
loneliness, taken pity upon me, and sent two of His own to cheer me, and
brighten a bit of the wilderness for a weary pilgrim. And we'll see if
the dwarf can't do something to show his gratitude," said Bambo
resolutely, yet speaking softly as if to himself. "Firgrove! And this is
Barchester, you may say--only about three miles from it as the crow
flies--and Barchester's thirty odd miles from Firdale. It's not so far
after all, and yet it would be a goodish bit to tramp," he added
thoughtfully.

"But do you think we must go home?" queried Darby anxiously. "You see,
when Mr. Joe and Mrs. Moll overtook us we were on our way, as I told
you, to the Happy Land--we were quite close to it, in fact. Would it be
right to turn back now?" the little lad asked, fixing his clear gray
eyes seriously on the face of the dwarf. "Wouldn't we be like
somebody--I forget who--that put his hand to the plough and looked back?
Didn't Jesus say that it's wrong of any one to do that?"

"Ay, sonny, our blessed Lord does say that 'no man, having put his hand
to the plough, and looking back, is fit for the kingdom of God;' and, of
course, we oughtn't to do it. But we must first make sure that we've put
our hands upon the right plough, that it's pointed in the proper
direction in the very field the great Husbandman wants us to turn over.
Then we can forge right ahead, cutting the furrow clean and straight, no
matter how stony the soil, or how stiff we find the ground."

"I _think_ I understand what you mean," said Darby slowly. "You are
trying to tell me as nicely as you can that we haven't got our plough
pointed in the right direction. Is that it, Mr. Bambo?"

"That's it, deary, and the sooner you get it turned about the better,"
replied the dwarf briskly. "Your field's waiting for you at Firgrove, so
back there you and missy must go as soon as ever you can give Joe and
Moll the slip. My, won't the ladies be in a fine way! By this time, I
expect, they'll have scoured the country, and be getting the canal
dragged in search of you both."

"Isn't we goin' to the Happy Land at all, then?" asked Joan, in a tone
of glad relief.

She had been listening to the talk between Bambo and her brother in
somewhat of a puzzle as to their meaning. She had, however, gathered the
gist of their remarks, and is that not about all that is worth gathering
of most conversations?

"Wait a little," whispered Darby, gently prodding her behind the dwarf's
back. "Don't be in such a hurry. We're coming to that."

"'Cause if we isn't," continued Joan the irrepressible, "I's werry,
werry glad. I doesn't know nuffin' 'bout the Happy Land--nuffin' much,
anyway, 'cept what nurse's hymn says--but I knows Firgrove, and I love
Auntie Alice, and the pussies, and baby when he's not cryin'. They's
quite 'nuff for me--just now at least," she added as an after-thought.
"And I wants to go back to Miss Carolina and the rest of my dear, sweet
dollies. Darby wouldn't let me bring none of them wif me. Now I's
lonesome for them," she whimpered, "and I won't go to no Happy Land
wifout my fings. There!" declared the mutinous little maid, with an
emphatic waggle of her sunny head, such as she had seen Perry finish up
with when argument waxed warm between her and Molly the cook.

And just as Captain Dene had smiled sympathetically over a similar
speech of his small daughter's, so did the dwarf bend an understanding
gaze upon the winsome, wilful face, with its dewy eyes and quivering
lips. At the same time there came back to his memory a verse of a hymn
or poem, Bambo did not know which, that his mother had been very fond of
and often repeated:--

    "Fair Anwoth by the Solway,
      To me thou still art dear;
    E'en from the verge of heaven
      I drop for thee a tear.
    Oh, if one soul from Anwoth
      Meet me at God's right hand,
    My heaven will be two heavens
      In Immanuel's land."

"Should we try to go to the Happy Land some other time, do you think,
Mr. Bambo?" asked Darby anxiously, half frightened and wholly distressed
by the feeling of satisfaction which filled him at the prospect of going
back to the security of Firgrove. It seemed to him as if a return
implied an easy entrance at the wide gate upon the broad and pleasant
way, and turning their backs on the strait and narrow path, which had
proved so tortuous and stony for their tender, stumbling feet.

For an instant the dwarf hesitated, hardly knowing how to answer the
boy's question. Then he spoke.

"If I was you, I wouldn't set out again in search of the Happy Land;
because them that turns their backs upon the duties which lie close to
their hand, and their faces away from the place where God has put them,
never find a happy land, neither in this life nor in the next," said the
little man solemnly. "It mostly comes to folks, often when they little
expect; leastways it did to me," he added softly.

"I'm afraid I don't understand what you mean," said Darby, with a
puzzled pucker between his brows. "How could the Happy Land come to one?
Can you tell me that, please?"

"Well, if you're looking for a country on this side of time such as the
hymn describes, and I think that's the notion that's taken hold of your
wise wee head," said the dwarf, laying a gentle hand on the lad's dark
hair, "you'll never find it; for there's no such place as that in this
world--where the sun's always shining, and night never falls; where
folks are never tempted or wicked; where there's no need to struggle,
and nobody makes mistakes; where there's neither sickness nor sorrow,
parting nor death--nothing but music and pleasure and happiness all the
year round. Only in heaven are all these joys to be found--the heaven
that awaits us after our work is done, when the blessed Lord Himself
sends His messenger to bring us home."

"Then, dear dwarf, isn't there any Happy Land at all," asked Joan,
fixing upon her friend a pair of wondering, wide blue eyes--"no nice
place where me and Darby can always be quite happy and good, wifout
naughtiness or puttin' to bed same as at Firgrove; where I could keep my
dollies and the pussies wif me, and where there 'ud be no Aunt
Catharine?" she added emphatically. "Tell me, please, isn't there no
Happy Land like that anywhere, wifout bein' deaded and put in a big box
in the ground, the way they did wif muver?"

"Ay, missy, there's a Happy Land sure enough for us all; but each of us
must seek it within, and create it around us for ourselves," said the
dwarf dreamily. "And I think that you surely make yours about you
wherever you are," he added, as he softly smoothed the little one's
tangled yellow curls.

"Please 'splain it to me again, Mr. Bambo," begged Darby, in his sweet,
grave tones; "I'm afraid I don't quite understand your meaning yet. I'm
only seven years old, you see, and not very wise for my age, Aunt
Catharine says."

"And I'm not wise at all," laughed Bambo, shaking his great head in a
droll way, which vastly amused Miss Joan, "although I'm more than three
times your age. I fear I'm not good at explaining, either, for I'm just
a dull, unlearned fellow. I never had no schooling, not since I wore
petticoats!"--here Joan laughed merrily--"and have no knowledge except
what the Master has taught me out under the sky and the stars, from the
hedgerows, the beasts, the birds, the trees, the flowers. But I'll do my
best to tell you what I mean, and the great Teacher Himself will make
the rest clear to you if you are willing to learn of Him.

"I believe that the only truly Happy Land is just wherever the Lord
Jesus is, and He dwells with those who love and desire Him above all
others, no matter what their station or where their habitation may
be--whether in a palace or a caravan; beyond yonder storm-blown hill, or
safe in the snug shelter of Firgrove. Then if He is to walk always
beside us, we must conduct ourselves as befits them that keep good
company. We must shirk no duty, no matter how disagreeable; leave never
a task unlearned, be it ever so hard; and travelling along hand in hand
with a Friend who is always faithful, a Counsellor who is ever wise, a
Guide who never stumbles, earth will become for us a real Happy Land,
and life a foretaste of the bliss of that kingdom prepared for the
Lord's own subjects 'from the foundation of the world.'

"This is what I believe, sonny, and I think it is what the Lord Jesus
wanted the multitudes to learn and remember when He said in His sermon
on the mount, 'Blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom
of heaven.'"

"Oh, thank you, thank you, dear Mr. Bambo; I know now 'zactly what you
mean. How clever you are!" exclaimed Darby, in a tone of mingled respect
and admiration, looking at his new teacher with glowing eyes, while his
cheeks were flushed from the excess of his delight. "And I am so glad we
needn't go away any more to look for the Happy Land from father, when he
comes back, and Eric, and Auntie Alice, and--and--everything," he added,
hurriedly lumping Aunt Catharine along with the odds and ends that were
too numerous to mention separately, "but just stay at home, and be good
and brave and true and loving to everybody. How easy it sounds! I feel
as if I never could be disobedient or naughty any more," he added, with
a look of such angelic innocence and high resolve that the dwarf had not
the heart to mar his lofty mood by so much as a hint of danger or a word
of warning. He only repeated softly, almost below his breath, a verse
from the battered old Book in his pocket, that was at times his sole
companion, and comfort always:--

"Take heed that ye despise not one of these little ones; for I say unto
you, That in heaven their angels do always behold the face of my Father
which is in heaven."




CHAPTER XI.

A SUDDEN FLIGHT.

    "Little robin redbreast sat upon a tree,
    Up went pussy-cat, and down went he;
    Down came pussy-cat, and away robin ran;
    Says little robin redbreast, 'Catch me if you can.'

    "Little robin redbreast flew upon a wall,
    Pussy-cat jumped after him, and almost got a fall.
    Little robin chirped and sang, and what did pussy say?
    Pussy-cat said 'Mew,' and robin flew away."


Meanwhile time was passing: morning had slipped on to afternoon. Moll
would not stay inside the caravan all day, and Joe might be back at any
moment.

"And now that you know where your Happy Land actually lies, don't you
think we'd better make tracks for it as soon as we can?" said Bambo at
length, speaking out of the silence that had fallen over the group. For
both Darby and Bambo had been thinking, and Joan was asleep, with her
head resting against the dwarf's shoulder.

"Why do you say 'we'? Are you going to come with us?" asked Darby, in
great delight. "Oh, how kind you are! But won't you be very tired
walking all that long way to Firgrove and back again, and your cough so
troublesome?" he inquired with concern.

"I won't want to come back again, sonny. I've been intending to leave
Joe and Moll for a good while past. I always put off and put off. Having
no friends to go to, and there being nothing else I could fall back upon
for a living, I suppose I was timid about making a change. Now I can see
God's hand in it. He kept me on with the Harrises because He had
something He wants poor Bambo to do before he dies. If only I can hold
out until I deliver you and little missy safe into the care of your
friends, that's all I'll ask. My work will then be done; I'll be ready
for the call whenever the messenger comes."

"How? what do you mean?" asked Darby, in an eager whisper, for he was
frightened--awed, rather--he knew not why, by the look on the dwarf's
face.

"Because, deary, Bambo's soon going home--home to the dear Lord Jesus,
whose love has made the world a happy land for the poor, despised,
misshapen dwarf since first I sought and found Him waiting and willing
to claim and receive me--_me_--even me, for His own."

The ready tears coursed quickly down Darby's cheeks, but he remained
silent. He did not know rightly what he ought to say, and, guided by the
inimitable tact, the heaven-born wisdom of childhood, said simply
nothing.

"Whish! here's Moll," spoke Bambo, in a warning undertone. "Don't let on
to her what we've been talking about. Better not say anything to missy,
either; but the very first chance we get we'll give them the slip--see
if we won't! Don't fret, sonny," he added, giving Darby's hand a
reassuring squeeze. "Just you leave things to me, and never fear, for
God will certainly set us free."

Almost directly Joe and Tonio returned. Joe was ravenously hungry and
extremely cross because they had come back empty-handed, and Joe did not
like that. He had an odd and occasionally inconvenient knack of picking
up something--no matter what--wherever he went. This talent of his was
well known among his friends, and had gained for him the nickname before
mentioned of Thieving Joe, a title of which he was actually proud,
until--But better not anticipate.

To-day, however, Joe had picked up nothing. Not a bird had they seen
worth the waste of powder and shot; not a rabbit had even so much as
sniffed in the direction of the snares. Joe was disappointed and out of
temper in consequence, and flinging down his gun, and administering a
cuff to the long-suffering Tonio, he roared for Bambo to bring him his
dinner, in a voice which awoke Joan bolt upright from her sleep, and set
Darby to shake and shiver down to the very soles of his shoes.

When the savoury meal which the dwarf had so carefully prepared was
disposed of, Mr. Harris lay down beside the fire to rest after the
fatigues of the morning. There he slept until twilight was stealing over
the common, and within the belt of fir trees darkness and gloom peopled
the spaces with shadows, and filled the air with that silence which
speaks in no known language, yet with many voices. And again, as on the
previous night, soon the encampment was in the bustle of removal. Bruno
and Puck were shoved into their cages, the horses harnessed and yoked to
the caravan, Darby and Joan carefully hidden away inside under Moll's
guardianship, and the party were on the move once more.

They were not going far, only to the outskirts of Barchester, the big,
busy, noisy town whose tall chimneys rose through the smoke-laden
atmosphere which hung so dark and heavy above their belching mouths.
Barchester was about eight miles off going by the less direct road along
which they would travel in order to elude pursuit. There they would halt
for the night, awaiting the proprietor's orders for the morrow.

The black boy capered alongside the caravan, aiming stones at the
sparrows hunched up on the leafless branches of the hedges, or chasing
the shy young rabbits that scuttered frightened to their burrows in the
mossy bank by the roadside, as the piebalds plodded sedately on their
monotonous way. The bear snarled behind his iron bars, the children
crouched silently in a corner of the caravan, while Joe and Moll smoked
and lounged, and discussed their plans concerning their captives and the
company generally during the approaching winter. Bambo occupied his
accustomed perch above the horses; and through the badly-fitted squares
of glass in front, which by no stretch of politeness could truthfully be
styled windows, the hum of their voices and the meaning of their words
reached distinctly and sharply his ears and brain.

"I say, Moll, are you mindin' that our term o' the van's about up?"
asked Joe, after some minor matters had been talked over. "We'll give
the bloomin' old shay back at the end o' the time, an' I don't think as
you an' me'll ever ride in it again, my woman! We ought to be able to do
better for ourselves than travel the country like this afore another
summer comes roun'."

"I'm sure I hope so, for I'm gettin' kind o' tired o' bein' cooped up in
a box like a rabbit in a trap," answered Moll sulkily.

"We'll go to lodgin's for the winter," Joe went on, taking no notice of
her surly mood; "jest a couple o' rooms, wi' a corner in an outhouse
where we can keep the bear. Bambo an' Bruno, wi' the little un on his
back fixed up in tinsel an' spangles, an' her yeller curls flyin', ought
to bring home a tidy penny every night--a heap o' coppers, I tell you!
Tonio will take to the hurdy-gurdy again; him an' Puck should win money
too. An' as for you," he continued, "you can make yer livin' any day by
yer black eyes an' slippery tongue. My, Moll, you are a cute un, an' no
mistake!"

"Come, give over yer palaver, for I'm not wantin' it," said Moll
roughly, yet not ill pleased at her husband's judicious tribute to her
smartness and her charms. "It's all very fine--you have everythin'
nicely fixed up accordin' to yer own notion," she continued mockingly;
"but I'd like to know where _you_ come in? What are _you_ goin' to do?"
she demanded angrily. "Nothin', I expect. Play the fine gentleman an'
live upon what the rest o' us earns. Not if I knows it, Joe Harris,"
said Moll harshly, with a vicious snap of her strong white teeth.

"Now, now, you mustn't turn rusty, Mrs. Harris, my dear; it don't suit
yer style o' beauty. I'm not goin' to be either idle or extravagant. I'm
goin' to work hard an' train them kids to work for us. There's money in
them, I tell you, especially the boy, an' see if Joe Harris can't draw
it out o' him! He'll be a bit stubborn at first, maybe, but we'll soon
cure him o' that," added the man savagely. "An' min' you promised to
help me, Moll! You're surely not forgettin' the bargain we made? You
were to stan' by me wi' the brats, an' I was to give you the silk gownd
an' the glitters--eh, my lass?"

"I'm not sure if I want yer silk gownd nor yer glitters, Joe Harris,"
answered his wife moodily. "It ud be dirty money that ud buy them. I
don't like this business, I tell you agin, as I telled you afore, an'
there'll no good come o't. Let the little uns go, Joe," she urged in
pleading tones. "For all that you purtend the other way, you know well
that there's folks breakin' their hearts about them somewhere. Sen' the
dwarf back wi' them to Firdale; they'll know their own way from there.
An' as for Bambo--why, if he never turns up agin he'll be no loss. He's
dyin'; you can see that wi' half an eye. His cough's 'nuff to give a
body the shivers."

"Are you mad, woman, that you bid me throw away the best chance ever I
had? An' the dwarf too! Why, do you want to ruin us all at one sweep?"
growled Joe furiously.

"I don't want to ruin you, an' well you knows it," said Moll soothingly;
"but I'm kin' o' tired o' livin' from day to day in dread o' you bein'
followed an' took up an' put in prison. For it'll come to that, or
worse, Joe, mark my words!" she added oracularly. "'The fox runs long,
but he's caught at last,'" she quoted solemnly, "an' I never felt so
downright sure o't afore. I think it's the look o' them children's eyes,
the little lass in partik'ler," added the woman, remembering with a
queer thrill at her heart Joan's kneeling baby form, the folded hands,
the lisping prayer, the unexpected kiss. "She makes me wish I was a
better woman," said Moll in a broken voice, softly sobbing the while.

Joe made no reply whatever. Possibly he was so vastly astonished at his
wife's strange mood that his usual ready flow of forcible argument for
once had failed him.

"Won't you let them go, Joe? do ee now," Moll resumed, in her most
persuasive tones. "An' when you return the van, send Tonio off on his
own hook too; the lad eats more'n he earns. An' sell Bruno; he's a
vicious brute--nothin' but an encumbrance. You couldn't do much wi' him
anyhow, once Bambo's out o' the road. The beast has a grudge agin you,
for the way you whip him, I expect. He'll do you an injury one o' these
days if you don't have a care! Then when we've only ourselves to think
o', you an' me'll make a nice, comfortable livin' easy--you an' me, an'
Puck an' the organ, wi' no fear o' the beaks or the jyle,
or--or--anythin'. My! it makes me young agin thinkin' o' the fine times
we'd have."

"Shut up, will you?" roared Mr. Harris, with a savage stamp of his huge
foot, which set Bruno to growl ominously, and all the pots and pans
slung around the van to jingle in unison.

After a moment Moll spoke.

"You bid me shut up," she said, with an angry jangle in her naturally
soft, full tones. "All right, I will, Joe Harris; but when the time
comes--as come it shall--that you're sorry you didn't listen to me,
don't look to Moll for pity. There, them's my last words."

Then a sullen silence fell upon the pair; but by the time the caravan
had reached its destination they were chatting as harmoniously as if no
difference of opinion had ever arisen to disturb their peace.

The horses were again unyoked, the bear dragged from its lair, and
arrangements put in train for the night. After a scanty supper of scraps
and fragments--for by this time the store in the larder was at low
ebb--having charged Bambo and Tonio with threats and strong words to
look well after the children on peril of their lives, and on no account
to allow them out of the van, Joe and Moll dressed themselves in their
best, and set off to look up some old friends and spend a pleasant
evening in the town.

No sooner were they safely out of the way than Tonio slyly
disappeared--following, doubtless, the example set him by his master and
mistress--possessing no more sense of responsibility to restrain his
movements than a kitten or a butterfly. Thus the dwarf found himself,
greatly to his satisfaction and delight, left in sole charge of the
captives and the encampment.

       *       *       *       *       *

The first faint light of the misty October morning was spreading up
slowly from the east, the delicate hoar frost of autumn was lying like a
filmy veil of silvery gossamer over the furze bushes and rough grass
around the camping-place, before the pair of pleasure-seekers returned.
By that time, however, Tonio was sleeping soundly beside the piebalds in
shelter of a tumble-down wall, with the monkey curled closely in against
his dusky breast. Joe and Moll were stupid, tired, and decidedly out of
sorts, as people are wont to be after a surfeit of enjoyment and a scant
supply of sleep. Bruno growled as usual at being disturbed, and clanked
his chain as if in remonstrance; from behind the wall the uneasy
fidgeting of the hungry horses could be plainly heard; while Tonio's
noisy snoring rose and fell upon the still, damp air with rhythmical
regularity. But over the old yellow caravan a curious and suspicious
silence reigned; not a sound was to be heard within its wooden walls,
not a glimmer of light came through its curtained panes.

Joe muttered an ugly word, roughly threw open the door, struck a match,
lighted the lamp and peered about him. Bambo's usual shakedown was
deserted; the pallet where the children should have been was unoccupied.
The place was empty; the prisoners had escaped--under the guidance of
the dwarf undoubtedly, many hours before, probably.

Behind her husband's back Moll executed a sort of breakdown dance, so
great was her satisfaction at the unexpected way in which her wishes had
been carried out. But the disappointment and wrath of Joe over this
sudden overthrow of his schemes were deep and furious.




CHAPTER XII.

FOLLOWED BY THE ENEMY.

    "What will the fishers do,
      When at the break of day
    They seek the pretty boats they left
      Moored in the quiet bay?
    They seek the pretty boats,
      And find that they are fled;
    Alas! what will the fishers do?
      How can they earn their bread?"

     --"A."


After his talk with Darby, the dwarf thought long and anxiously as to
what would be their best route to Firgrove. Under ordinary circumstances
their simplest one would have been to start from Barchester, or else go
back to Engleton, then straight along by the canal to Firdale, thence to
Firgrove, which was only about a mile from the village. But Joe and Moll
would be sure to follow them, in order to make an attempt to recover
their captives. Several times before Joe had tried to kidnap an
attractive smart child whom he could train to be a sort of golden prop
upon which his laziness could lean, but hitherto he had always been
balked in his purpose. He would be furiously angry, Bambo knew, when he
discovered that, just when a life of ease and idleness such as he had
longed for seemed certain in the near future, he was as far as ever from
accomplishing his object.

So, in order to avoid the chance of being brought back and subjected to
greater cruelty than before, the dwarf decided to take a much longer way
than that by the canal. They would strike out across the common behind
Barchester, then double back a bit, and follow an unfrequented road
which also led to Firdale, winding through a long tract of hilly land,
laid out chiefly in runs for mountain cattle and hardy sheep, and
scarcely inhabited except by herds and shepherds.

They could, of course, have travelled by rail, but this mode did not
even occur to Bambo. For one thing, he was penniless, except for a few
coppers that had escaped Moll's covetous eyes and grasping fingers the
last time she rifled his pockets, when she supposed him to be asleep;
and for another, he was not used to railway journeys. He had never, in
fact, been inside a railway carriage in all his life, and he would have
hated and shrunk from the attention he would most assuredly have
attracted from all sorts of people--pity, horror, shrugs, smiles, grins,
jeers, and laughter. It was bad enough to be stared at in booths and
fairs when he was dressed up as a general in a shabby scarlet uniform
and plumed hat with Bruno by his side. That was different. That was the
only way he had ever hit upon by which he might honestly earn his food
and shelter, such as it was. But from choice the dwarf had always
avoided his fellow-creatures. Surrounded by the strong, the
self-satisfied, the handsome, the gay, the consciousness of his own
oddity and deformity was borne in upon his sensitive spirit in the
keenest manner; but in the woods and fields, by the roadside and the
hedgerows, he felt another person entirely. There Bambo forgot that he
was so unlike his fellows; and among the birds, the beasts, the trees,
the flowers, with God's wide heaven above and the green earth under
foot, this simple, large-souled child of nature dropped his burden, and
for the time being felt happy and at home.

He knew quite well the way along which he proposed to travel, for he had
footed it from Firdale to Barchester more than once when he was a boy.
In the scattered cottages and herdsmen's huts there were simple, kindly
souls, who would welcome any one from the outside world, and willingly
give them a bit of bread, a drink of milk, with maybe a shakedown by
their fireside for the night, without asking any awkward questions or
gazing too curiously at the odd little man and his charming companions.
They might get a lift, too, for a few miles now and again in a cart or
wagon going between one and another of the few farms along the route.
Bambo sincerely hoped they should, for Joan would not be able to walk
very far at once. Her feet were tender, and her shoes were thin. Bambo
knew she should have to be carried the greater part of the way, and his
great anxiety was lest his fund of strength, which had gradually grown
so sadly small, should fail him before he had completed his self-imposed
task. What would become of the little ones if he were forced to lie down
under the friendly shelter of some wayside hedge, utterly unable to drag
himself another step? Would Joe and Moll find them and force them back
to a life of lovelessness, hardship, and degradation? Oh, surely not!
and the dwarf's soul sank within him as he contemplated the bare
possibility of such failure and defeat.

For a while Bambo gave way to despondency and these by no means
unnatural fears. Soon, however, this mood passed away, banished as
swiftly as mist before sunshine, by the recollection of a promise--old
almost as the everlasting hills, yet new as the song which the redeemed
ones sing around the throne of God,--

"Fear thou not; for I am with thee: be not dismayed; for I am thy God: I
will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee; yea, I will uphold thee
with the right hand of my righteousness."

Like a whisper of sweetest music the peace of the words stole over the
dwarf's troubled spirit, soothing and fortifying him so that he felt
himself no longer a weakling, a pigmy, but a veritable giant to fight
and to endure. And with a smile upon his lips and a light not of earth
in his sunken eyes, Bambo and his charges slipped noiselessly away from
the bear, the monkey, and the caravan, and set out, not to _seek_ the
Happy Land, as Darby said with one of his quaint, grave glances, but
this time to _find_ it.

       *       *       *       *       *

The first streaks of sunlight were lighting up the landscape before the
little party paused to take a rest, and to eat some of the food which
the dwarf's fore-thought had provided. Darby found a dry seat upon the
trunk of a fallen tree. Upon it they sat and ate their breakfast of cold
rabbit and dry bread, washed down by a draught of pure water carried in
a tin porringer from a spring which bubbled out of the bank hard by--a
spring that was half hidden by the feathery moss, trailing periwinkle,
and brown fern fronds with which it was surrounded. The children
breakfasted heartily, their early outing having sharpened their
appetites; but Bambo's eating was only a pretence, for he was not
hungry. Joan was a fairly solid weight for a girl of five, and he had
carried her in his arms nearly all the way from the encampment. He was
tired and exhausted in consequence; his hands burned, his lips were
parched, his brow fevered. He laved his face with the clear, cool water;
and after a long, deep drink from the porringer, which Joan held to his
lips with all the precision and gravity of a professional nurse, he felt
strengthened and refreshed.

By-and-by they set out again, and now Joan trotted by Bambo's side,
chattering gaily the while. The sunshine was warm and bright. The air
was alive with myriads of insects flitting and buzzing their brief life
away. Sparrows chirped and wrangled in the bare brown hedges, robins
piped their sweet, plaintive tune from every tree; film-like webs of
silvery gossamer decked the grass beneath their feet, and draped the
stunted furze bushes as with a bridal veil of rarest lace. It was all so
gladsome, so beautiful, so free, that Joan laughed and skipped for joy.
And was she not going back to Miss Carolina, and the cats, and baby, and
Auntie Alice, and Firgrove? Darby trudged more soberly by the dwarf's
side, and they chatted as they went. Bambo told tales of his boyhood. He
described to the children the tiny two-roomed cottage, long since swept
away to be replaced by a more sanitary habitation, where he and his
widowed mother lived with his grandfather and grandmother. He spoke of
his kind grandmother's death, and his mother's, almost immediately
after, from the same destroying fever. Thus Bambo was left practically
alone in the world. His grandfather was a sour, silent man, disappointed
first in his only son, who had never been anything but a ne'er-do-well
and a burden to his parents; then in his grandson, whose deformity and
helplessness the old man resented as a personal injury at the hand of
Providence. He could not tolerate the child as a baby--never set eyes
upon him, in fact, if he could help it. When the baby grew from infancy
to childhood, he quickly learned, guided by the unerring instinct
usually possessed by the young, to keep out of his grandfather's way and
to fear him, so that there was little love lost between them. After the
two women were gone the state of matters grew worse. Sore from a sense
of injustice, starved for want of affection, the boy was often sullen
and sometimes disobedient. Strife and even blows were the outcome, until
life in Moses Green's lodging--for he had quitted the cottage--became
unbearable to the wretched, misguided boy. Indeed, so unhappy did he
feel in those dark days after his mother's death, that he had been often
tempted to wonder why God had made him at all when he was not made as
others, when in all the big, wide world there seemed no fitting place
for such as he.

There were several kind, good people who, aware of the harsh, unnatural
feeling of the surly old gardener towards his grandson, were anxious to
befriend the orphan child--Squire Turner of Firgrove, the father of Aunt
Catharine and Auntie Alice, being among the number. But the first thing
they one and all proposed was that for a while he should be sent to
school, and to this the lad resolutely refused to submit. Did he not
know what strong, active boys who could leap, and run, and fight, and
play football were like out of school? They were his enemies, his
tormentors, who mocked, gibed, jeered, stoned him even, until he
sometimes felt he would like to wrap his long arms round their necks and
strangle the whole lot of them. And if they were cruel and unkind out of
school, when he could generally get away from them somehow, or hide,
what would they be in it where there should be no escape? School indeed!
Not likely! So in order to free himself from the attentions of those who
meant well enough, no doubt, but, in the dwarf's opinion, did not know
what they were talking about, Bambo did what many another boy has done
on the top of his temper before and since--he ran away, far, far away to
the big town of Barchester, upon which he and the children had just
turned their backs, tramping every step of the long, weary journey.

It was quickly made plain to him, however, that most of the lads who
loafed about the Barchester street corners were curiously similar to the
boys of Firdale in their love of teasing and making a mock of any
creature weaker than themselves, any one whose appearance or
peculiarities presented a fair butt for their rough ridicule, and
gradually the dwarf grew to cherish a rooted hatred to his race.

The days went on. He had arrived in Barchester with only a
long-treasured threepenny piece in his pocket. Rapidly it melted away;
for a few pence do not last very long, even when one buys only a
halfpenny worth of bread a day and sleeps on a doorstep. He was almost
famished and worn to a shadow when, by good luck or ill, he fell in with
the proprietor of the Satellite Circus Company and his troupe, as Joe so
grandly called the occupants of the huge yellow caravan. They were just
starting on tour--the phrase is Joe's--for the summer. Joe eagerly
invited the dwarf to accompany them, being on the lookout at the time
for a fresh sensation, and seeing in the extraordinary-looking lad, with
the huge head, stunted legs, and sprawling feet, a novel addition to his
party at the cost merely of some scraps and a shelter, when a shelter
was available and not required for any other purpose.

The boy on his part jumped at the man's offer, for was he not starving?
Besides, he was overjoyed at the prospect of the freedom and the outdoor
life held out to him by the proposal that he should become part and
parcel of the constantly-moving caravan. And what a fine way of escape
from his persecutors! So there and then the dwarf was enrolled as a
regular member of the Satellite Circus Company. His real name--plain
Jimmy Green--was scornfully cast aside. Mr. Harris voted it slow and
commonplace. After a good deal of thought and much indecision, he
substituted the more catchy one of Bambo as being both novel and
appropriate to the profession--Bambo, the musical dwarf; though why he
was dubbed musical was always a puzzle to the poor little man, because
nobody had ever known him to sing a note in his life. Sing! why, with
his hoarse, croaky voice he could no more make music than a frog in a
marsh. The absurdity of it amused him at first every time he saw his
name flaring in big red and yellow letters from placards and hoardings.
Bambo was all right; he rather liked the change. And Bambo he had
remained ever since, until, like Darby and Joan, the dwarf had almost
forgotten his claim to any other name.

From year to year he stayed on with Joe and Moll. Other members of the
company came and went, but still the dwarf remained--now cuffed and
kicked, when he did not by his grotesque antics and claptrap tricks
bring in as many pence as his patrons believed he might; again let alone
when he had been lucky, and they were in a good humour with themselves
and all the world. He acted as bear-leader and buffoon, villain and
hero, alternately in public; while in private he was cook, drudge,
messman, and menagerie manager for the rest of the party, for animals of
some sort invariably formed part of the attractions of the troupe. Now
it was a performing poodle, picked up somewhere in Mr. Harris's own
ingenious way of finding things which had never been lost; again it was
a cage of white mice; at another time a wonderful parrot, with always a
monkey, and generally a bear. Bambo had a great way with these
creatures, and often succeeded in teaching them tricks when Joe had
failed. His methods were few and simple, based chiefly upon kindness and
perseverance; whereas Joe's one idea of imparting instruction was by
threats and chastisement in some form, dealt out impartially to each and
all, and more than one valuable animal had come to grief on the system.

It was a hard life, and after a time became very monotonous to the
dwarf, who was often heartsick of it all. But what else was there for
him to do? Nothing that he knew of, so he stayed on.

One after another the changing seasons slipped swiftly away, and in
their passing brought to the Satellite Circus Company reverses and bad
times. They found it impossible to keep pace with the ever-growing craze
for something fresh, a new excitement, and in consequence had slowly but
surely been losing their place in public favour. Then the company was
broken up. The Swedish giantess went over to an opposition troupe; the
German ventriloquist and conjurer had died of apoplexy; their leading
lady, who so airily executed the tight-rope performances as well, went
off one fine day without saying good-bye, and married the clown, with
whom she had serious thoughts of setting up a select show on her own
account. The roomy, comfortable caravan was sold, and an old lumbering
machine hired each summer instead; while in winter the party lived from
hand to mouth on their wits, putting up here, there, and anyhow. The
animals had all died or been disposed of except the horses--a pair of
broken-down yet intelligent piebalds--Puck, and Bruno, the bear that
Bambo had trained from a cub, and tamed until he was as gentle as a
lamb with every one but Joe, towards whom he seemed to entertain a
dislike both deep and savage.

As the years rolled round, Bambo became reconciled to his lot, and in
course of time more than reconciled, even happy. For in the many
solitary hours he passed perched above the horses upon the box of the
caravan, when the soft summer wind fanned his face, or in dark, dewy
midnights, when in the shelter of some leafy forest glade he felt
himself alone with nature, long-forgotten words he had heard from his
mother's lips, prayers she had taught him, hymns she had crooned beside
his bed, came back to his memory--not quickly or clearly all at once,
but slowly, hazily. He eagerly welcomed these memories, and hungrily
held them close. At first they represented to him his mother--gentle,
pitiful, loving--come back from the dead, and the friendless youth felt
no longer desolate. Then he began to ponder the meaning of the thoughts
that filled his heart and brain; and God, by His silent lessons,
conveyed through every bird that flies, every insect that crawls, each
flower that raises its smiling beauty to the sun, helped him to
understand. He had learned to read, in an imperfect sort of way, during
his early years. He bought a Bible with clear type in the next village
they stopped at, and, by dint of frequent practice, he was soon able to
read it easily. The Book became his constant comfort and delight.
Henceforth existence ceased to be a burden to the despised dwarf; each
day brought a fresh message of hope, and held a sweeter significance of
love for this hitherto hopeless, loveless creature, because the Lord had
discovered to him the real meaning of life, and he knew himself--mean,
unworthy though he was--at his true value: no longer only a log, a
spectacle, an offence, but an immortal soul for whom the dear Christ
Jesus had esteemed it no shame to die! He was sure that he was wanted in
the world, that there was a use for him, a something which he alone
could do, and he patiently awaited the Lord's orders. Now he knew that
his special work had been put ready to his hand--the deliverance of
these two little ones. And although the call to action did not sound
until his sands of life were well-nigh run, the answer "Ready!" rang
none the less cheerily and promptly.

       *       *       *       *       *

At midday, which Bambo was able to guess pretty nearly by the sun, the
fugitives halted to have their dinner. Joan said it was not dinner at
all, only breakfast over again; for it consisted of some more cold
rabbit, a slice of bread each, with a drink of water. And very good it
tasted to these hungry little people, who many a time at Firgrove had
discontentedly turned up their noses at much more dainty fare. Then Joan
fell asleep, cradled comfortably in the dwarf's long arms, and Darby
dozed at his side.

When they awoke it was well on in the afternoon. The sun was no longer
visible; a chilling wind had sprung up from the east; dull gray clouds
hung loweringly overhead; a close mist, as of coming rain, wrapped the
landscape as in a mantle. Bambo felt that they must push on, and, if
possible, find somewhere to shelter in for the night. It would never do
for these tenderly-nurtured children to be exposed to a drenching. About
himself the dwarf had no anxiety. A shower more or less could not matter
much, he thought, as a more severe fit of coughing than usual shook his
frail, thin body and tore at his poor, raw chest. Nothing mattered now,
he told himself, except that he should accomplish the work his Master
had given him to do, and along with the work he believed that he should
also be granted a sufficiency of strength. After that--why, he would be
quite ready and eager for the next call upon him, whenever it came.

But there was not a house or cottage within sight, only a long stretch
of barren land, half heather, partly coarse grass, over which some
small, horned sheep and half-grown cattle had been turned out to
pasture. About three miles off, at a place called Hanleigh Heath, there
was a farm with a solitary wayside dwelling attached--a big, bare barn
of a place, part of which the farmer had utilized as a sort of rude
hostelry. The dwarf knew it well. It was called the Traveller's Delight.
He had put up there with the Harrises one night several years before.
The landlord and Joe seemed the best of friends--as "thick as thieves,"
in fact. Therefore Bambo felt that he dared not venture within the
hostelry with his charges--it would not be safe; besides, they had no
money to pay for lodging. Nevertheless, they must make for it with all
speed. The rain was coming on, and soon too. The Traveller's Delight
held out their only chance of refuge from the wet and the darkness, and
the dwarf hoped that in some of its straggling outhouses they should
find shelter for the night.

It was almost dark when Darby and the dwarf saw a light twinkling a
short way off, like a bright, friendly eye from out the gloom. Oh, how
thankful they were! for both were weary beyond the power of moving many
yards further. Darby was staggering from giddiness and stumbling at
every step. His little legs dragged one after the other as if each foot
were weighted with lead. Bambo spoke no word, for speech was now hardly
possible to him, his throat was so sore, his breath so laboured, his
chest so torn by the deep, grating cough, which, in spite of all his
efforts, he could not suppress. The instant the rain actually began to
fall he had taken off his jacket to wrap around Joan, who was sound
asleep in his arms, and his vest he had put upon Darby. It hung about
the boy's slim shoulders and over his knees somewhat like a sack. It had
saved him from a wetting, however; while Bambo, thus stripped of his
outer garments, was soaked to the skin.

He carefully laid the still sleeping Joan under the shelter of a hayrick
in the stackyard behind the inn; and charging Darby neither to make a
noise nor leave her alone, no matter what might happen, the dwarf crept
cautiously forward--stealthy in his movements as a cat stalking a
mouse--to ascertain whether there was any safe cover to which he could
convey the children.

From the front of the inn the lamplight streamed through the uncurtained
windows, shining cheerily on the wet cobble-stones of the sloppy
courtyard, and now and again a shrill voice pierced the silence of the
night as a woman's figure moved to and fro within the warmly-glowing
kitchen. But outside there was no sign of life; all was still except for
the occasional shuffling of the horses' feet in the stable, the slow,
deep breathing of the cows in an adjacent shed; and Bambo became bolder.
He peeped in at this window, he peered within that door, until at length
he found what he wanted--an empty house with plenty of clean, dry straw
strewn upon its floor.

In summer it had probably been used for housing the calves which were
now wandering at will over the wide, wet pasture-lands, having arrived
at an age when they could be promoted to share the privations without
enjoying any of the comforts of the grown-up creatures belonging to the
establishment. No one was likely to have an errand there now that its
former occupants were away. In any case, nobody would be about before
morning, Bambo reasoned, and by day-dawn he and his charges would have
once more taken the road for Firgrove.

Gently and carefully he raised Joan from her bed beside the haystack,
fearing that if she awoke she might make a noise. She did awake,
however, sat up, looked all round in a frightened fashion, then began to
whimper. Drawing a fold of shawl across her mouth and whispering to
Darby to keep close, the dwarf carried her as swiftly and silently as
possible to the shelter which he had discovered. There, snugly curled up
among the clean, dry straw like kittens in a basket, the little ones
were both soon sound asleep.

But Bambo could not sleep, although his weakness and weariness amounted
almost to pain. He was strangely wakeful, and eagerly on the alert for
the slightest sound which might indicate either disturbance or danger.
By-and-by, however, his head began to droop on his chest; his eyes were
closed, his long arms lay limply by his side. The present faded away
from him; he drifted back into the past again. Once more he was a child
at his mother's knee; his brow was bent upon her lap, his hands were
folded as she bade him fold them when he said his evening prayer--a
simple petition which in all his wanderings the dwarf never forgot, and
of late years never omitted to repeat each night--in perfect faith and
childlike confidence that his words would be heard, his requests
granted:--

    "I lay my body down to sleep,
    And pray that God my soul will keep;
    And if I die before I wake,
    I pray that God my soul will take. Amen."

For a while all was still within the calf-house. Darby and Joan slept
the profound, dreamless sleep of tired childhood; the dwarf was buried
in an oblivion which was as much the stupor of weakness as the
blissfulness of sleep. About an hour he remained sunk in sweet
forgetfulness of present danger and future difficulties. Then his big
head began to bob uneasily up and down, from one side to another, until
it fell upon his shoulder with a sudden jerk which only partially
aroused him. He opened his eyes with an effort. Where was he, and where
was his mother? Surely that was not her voice which broke in so coarsely
through the closed door and the hole in the wall? That harsh laugh never
burst from her mouth; those ugly words never soiled her pure lips! All
at once Bambo started upright, thoroughly awake and trembling with
terror. He remembered everything, and for a minute his brave, loving
heart died within him as he recognized the voices in the court outside
of Thieving Joe and his wife Moll, wrangling with the sleepy landlord
for admittance at that unseemly hour to the shelter and comfort of the
Traveller's Delight.

The dwarf put his ear to a chink in the door and listened intently. He
could not make out what they said, however, but that they were there in
hot pursuit of himself and the children Bambo felt not an atom of doubt.
Some one must have taken note of the runaways, given Joe and Moll
warning, and here they were already on their trail. They would question
the landlord; next, search every corner and cranny about the inn for the
fugitives. At any moment their hiding-place might be discovered.




CHAPTER XIII.

A TERRIBLE FRIGHT.

    "No will-o'-the-wisp mislight thee,
    No snake or slowworm bite thee,
        But on, on thy way,
        Not making a stay,
    Since ghost there's none to affright thee.

    "Let not the dark thee cumber;
    What though the moon does slumber?
        The stars of the night
        Will lend thee their light,
    Like tapers clear without number."

                    R. HERRICK.


Behind the stackyard at the Traveller's Delight the ground dipped down
into a hollow, which, even in daylight, was completely screened from the
view of any one within the house or about the yard by a great clump or
patch of scraggy furze bushes. In this secluded spot there stood a
lime-kiln, one of those built somewhat like a low circular tower, with
gaping mouth and open roof; but for many a day the kiln had not been
used--not since the present tenant entered on possession of the farm at
Hanleigh Heath. During the course of these years of disuse nature had
been busy beautifying the original ugliness of the structure. Now ivy
climbed boldly here and there over the rough mason-work, trails of late
convolvulus festooned the opening, hardy hart's-tongue and tufts of
parsley fern sprang from every crevice in the stones, while the top was
covered with a tangle of briars, nettles, and matted grass. These
combined to form a species of thatch which perfectly protected the
interior from both wind and rain.

Bambo had come upon this spot long ago. He had, in fact, slept there one
night snugly and safely, and thought to himself what a fine hiding-place
it would be in case of need, for nobody seemed to go near it. Now, in
his dilemma and sore strait, the remembrance of the old lime-kiln came
back to him, and he welcomed the idea with joy and gratitude. It would
never occur to Joe Harris to seek his runaways in such a spot--he
probably did not know of its existence--and the dwarf did not believe
that the landlord would take any part in the chase. He surmised, and
correctly too, that such a shrewd person would prefer to ignore the
claims of friendship to running the risk of bringing the Traveller's
Delight under the notice of the authorities, or mixing himself up with
what might turn out to be an awkward business.

For what seemed to the watching Bambo a very long time lights continued
to burn within the house, while now and again a burst of noisy laughter
broke the silence of the night, rising discordantly above the steady,
persistent pitter-patter, pitter-patter, drip, drip, drip of the soft,
thick autumn rain. At length the darkness and stillness of midnight held
the homestead in possession. Even the rain had ceased to fall; not a
sound was to be heard except the dwarf's hoarse, laboured breaths and
the gentle, regular breathing of the sleeping children.

Gradually and cautiously Bambo awoke Darby. For a minute or two the
little fellow could not make out where he was; but in a few hurried
whispered sentences the dwarf made him understand how near and how dire
was the danger which threatened them--how absolutely needful it was for
them to be quick, and to be wary in their attempt if they meant to
escape.

Without arousing Joan, Bambo lifted her up from her nest among the
straw, and keeping her still well wrapped up in his own worn jacket, he
held her easily in his arms. Then, with Darby pressing close beside him,
they crept noiselessly forth from the shelter and warmth of the cosy
calf-house.

By this time the moon rode high in a soft gray-blue sky, shedding a
flood of pale, pure radiance on all things, touching the homely,
commonplace details of the farmyard with a love-like caress until they
were idealized into objects of wonder and beauty. But Bambo had no eyes
just then for admiring nature's marvellous transformation scenes; the
work in hand occupied his whole attention. He barely glanced at the
moon, although he was well aware of her presence, which he considered
rather unfortunate, and heartily wished it had been still dark, because
then their movements would have been more certain to escape notice.

Slowly and stealthily they moved from the cover of the door, keeping
well within the shadow cast by the walls of the outhouses. Step by step
they stole along until they reached the greater security of the
stackyard. There they were beyond view from the windows, supposing any
one were looking out, which was hardly likely. Inch by inch they crawled
across the bright patch of a hundred yards or so between them and the
clump of friendly furze bushes. There they paused to take breath and
look about them. There was nobody at their heels; nothing in sight
except the sheep huddled in heaps for shelter behind the low stone
dikes, and the young cattle herding in groups here and there over the
wet, glistening fields. In the hollow below lay the place of refuge for
which they were bound. And just as Bruce's plucky spider made that "bold
little run at the very last pinch" which "put him into his native spot,"
so one quick rush down the incline in front of them landed the fugitives
inside the empty lime-kiln, where they were safe, for the moment at
least, with a roof over their heads, a dry green floor beneath their
feet, on which they could stretch their weary limbs.

But afterwards! The inn seemed wrapped in slumber just then. The
landlord would be back in his bed. Joe and Moll might have left--gone
off in another direction, disappointed at not finding the fugitives or
any news of them at the Traveller's Delight on their arrival; or
possibly they were resting, with the intention of making a thorough
search through the premises in the daylight next morning. This was the
more probable explanation of how matters actually stood; at the same
time, Bambo had no sense of security that it was the correct one. At
that very moment their enemies might be prowling from barn to byre, from
cart-shed to stable in pursuit of their prey. They would undoubtedly
explore the stackyard. Next, they would notice the furze bushes. They
would poke and peer among them and about them. Failing to find what they
sought, they would be sure to look this way and that, up and down, until
their eyes lighted upon the lime-kiln. Then--

Here the dwarf drew a quick breath, set his teeth hard, and again asked
himself what was to be done next.

The children were worn out. Joan sobbed from time to time in her sleep,
and brave, strong-souled little Darby shivered with cold and fright,
while he pressed closer and closer to the dwarf's side for warmth and
protection. As for Bambo himself, he was feeling extremely ill. The
fever that raged in his blood cracked his lips and parched his tongue,
until it felt in his mouth like so much dry sponge. His breathing had
become so laboured from the sharp, shooting pains in his chest and back
that it was only with difficulty he could speak; while his hot hands
shook, and his thin, stunted limbs trembled beneath the weight of his
big, ungainly body. He wondered what would happen if he were not able to
go any further! What would become of the boy and little missy if he were
to die there in the kiln before morning? Alas! there could be but one
answer to that question, with Moll Harris and Thieving Joe hovering
around like hawks about a nest of doves. But no; God was not going to
deliver them up to the destroyers in any such fashion. After having
brought them thus far on their way in safety, He would surely see them
over the rest of the road; and Bambo took heart again. They would rest
where they were until dawn; then one more effort would surely bring them
to some farm or decent cottage. He would tell the children's story, and
perhaps a cart or other conveyance could be found to take them on to
Firgrove; some one, at least, there would surely be willing to hasten to
inform the ladies of the whereabouts of the two wee wanderers.

Thus far the dwarf's thoughts ran readily on, then stopped in confusion.
Further they would not seek to penetrate, and it did not matter. Once
the little ones were safe with their friends he should have plenty of
time to think about himself. Then he would be free to lie down in some
quiet spot and sleep away some of the weakness and weariness which
every moment threatened to overpower him. Sleep! oh, if he could only
sleep until the racking pains in his chest were better!
Sleep--sleep--sleep! and perhaps it might even be permitted him not to
wake at all until he had reached that land whose inhabitants are never
sick, and the people who dwell therein are forgiven their iniquity.

"I'm afraid your cold is worse," whispered Darby at length through the
silence, that was broken only by Joan's sobbing sighs and the dwarf's
hoarse breathing, which every moment became more painful and more
difficult.

"Ay, I think it is," answered Bambo, giving the little fellow's hand a
grateful squeeze. "But don't you fret about Bambo, deary; he'll soon be
all right, never fear, once you and missy are safe at home."

"Are we far from the canal here, Mr. Bambo?" Darby again asked, after a
long pause, during which the dwarf thought he had fallen asleep.

"Yes--no--well, let me see," said the dwarf thoughtfully. "Why, it's
just a matter of about two miles as the crow flies, over the fields on
the other side of the inn."

"Could we walk as the crow flies?" demanded Darby eagerly. "That is--of
course--well, you know what I mean," and the little lad smiled and
coloured in the darkness.

"Ay, there's nothing to hinder, so far as I know. Why are you asking,
deary?"

"Because I've been thinking that if we could get there--and Joan should
be able to walk that length easily, I'm sure, after this nice long sleep
she's having--the man would let us into the boat, and that would take us
home without tiring you any more. Or we could slip on board when he
wasn't looking. You know that's how we came," added the boy, with an
amused little chuckle.

The dwarf did not answer immediately.

"Well, sonny, I wouldn't say but you're about right," he replied at
length. "I never thought of going by the canal, knowing as how the
boat's not allowed to carry passengers. But if we were to tell the man
in charge where we're bound for, and explain things a bit to him, it's
more than likely he'd stretch a point and take us to Firdale. And if he
refuses, we could do just as you say--slip in at the next stopping-place
without anybody being anything the wiser.

"Bless you for a wee wisehead!" gasped Bambo, in his hoarse, quavering
voice, at the same time drawing the child still closer to his side.
"You've put new life into me. Here I've been fearing as how I should
never reach Firgrove, and blaming the Lord for forgetting us. And now,
out of the mouth of a babe, so to speak, He brings the very plan that
will be easiest and best for us all," and tears of joy and thankfulness
trickled down the poor creature's hollow, fevered cheeks.

"We needn't go just yet, not for ever so long," said Darby, quite proud
of his post of commander-in-chief for the time being. "The boat leaves
Barchester early, early in the morning, but she doesn't reach Engleton
till about eight o'clock. I've talked with Mrs. Grey of the _Smiling
Jane_ lots and lots of times, so I know. She reaches Firdale some time
in the evening. We'll be home in time for tea. Oh, won't it be lovely!"
said Darby, clasping his hands in ecstasy.

"Ay!" assented Bambo, earnestly, solemnly. It was not of the tea he was
thinking, however, but of the deep satisfaction and gratitude with which
he would hand over his charges to their proper guardians. "And now you
must try and sleep a while, sonny, like missy here. See, lie down on
this nice dry place, and you can lean your head on Bambo's knee."

"You must rest too," coaxed Darby sweetly. "You are so good to us, yet
you never think of yourself. Wait, see if we won't take care of you when
we go to Firgrove! Aunt Catharine will soon cure your cough. She's fine
for doctoring, though she _is_ so--so--"

"Don't fret about me, sonny; I'll rest plenty by-and-by, never you
fear," and with that strange smile lighting up his pale, plain face, a
smile which to look upon--only now it was too dark--made Darby feel as
if he were in church or had newly finished saying his prayers, the dwarf
watched until the little lad's heavy eyelids drooped over his tired
eyes.

Soon he would have been, like Joan, fast asleep. Bambo also was hovering
on the undefined borderland, when the sound of footsteps from the field
above the kiln caught his quick ear, and with a sudden jerk of his great
head he sat up to listen. At the same time a flare of light from a
lantern streamed over the top of the kiln, and loud, angry voices rose
upon the still night air in quarrelsome tones.

"I ain't goin' prowlin' about here no longer, Joe Harris, I tell ee,"
said Moll shrilly. "I've tramped at yer heel for the last twelve hours
a'most, till I'm ready to drop, an' now you'd keep folks from their
proper sleep all for nought!"

"Stow yer cheek, I say, or it'll be the worse for you," growled Mr.
Harris savagely. "I'm goin' to fin' them kids an' that rascally imp o' a
dwarf wherever they are, an' you're goin' to help me. They come this
way, right enough--there's no mistake about that--an' where else would
they be but here? There's not another spot they could shelter for miles
an' miles."

"Fin' 'em, then, if you can!" snapped Moll sharply. "Anyhow, I'm goin'
away to my bed like a decent Christ'an woman. Come along, Joe, do," she
urged, with a swift change of tone. "You can have another look roun' in
the mornin' if you must. But if you'd take my biddin'--only that's what
you never do--you'd let 'em go back where they come from."

"Shut up!" commanded Joe, in the same savage tone as before. "Haven't I
told you agin an' agin that I'll never let 'em escape--not if we were to
swing for't!" he added grandly. Then he went on in a wheedling sort of
way. "Here, old girl, take the lantern an' look down below there; you've
sharper sight nor me. Pullen, he says as there's a tumble-down
lime-kiln in that hollow. Bambo ud hardly hit on't; but it's best to
make sure."

Moll snatched the lantern from her lord's hand with an extremely bad
grace, and an exclamation which sounded very like "Bad luck to Pullen
an' the Traveller's Delight!" For she heartily disliked the mission upon
which they were bound--the recovery of the captives. Having had frequent
experience of her husband's furious temper and the weight of his fists,
she dared not directly refuse to aid him; but from the bottom of her
heart she hoped the two sweet innocents would never fall into his
clutches again.

"Better for them to be dead!" muttered Moll passionately, as, lantern in
hand, she nimbly slid down the shiny wet slope to the lime-kiln. "The
little lass, leastways," she added in a softer voice. And as the memory
of Joan's freely-bestowed kiss fell upon the woman's half-awakened heart
like the touch of an angel's finger, a tear trembled on her long black
lashes, and a wordless prayer winged its way through the inky darkness
of the murky sky--a prayer which in heaven was understood to indicate a
struggling soul's yearning after better things.

Straight and swift to the mouth of the kiln came Moll, the lantern
flinging its trail of light from side to side as she moved. At length
she paused opposite the opening, darted inside, looked about, and
stopped short with a smothered cry as her keen eyes discerned the little
group huddled in the far corner.

"Whish!" was all she said. Then she laid a finger on her lip, pointed
upwards, and whispered, "Joe!"

Neither Bambo nor Darby moved or spoke, and Joan slept on. They were too
frightened to do anything but stare at Moll in astonishment, wondering,
yet thankful, because she seemed disposed to be so friendly.

Moll put the lantern on the ground, fumbled for an instant in a huge
hold-all that hung beneath her skirt, whence she produced a handful of
coppers with a hunch of bread and cheese. These she silently handed to
the dwarf, who grasped her hand and murmured a fervent "God bless you,
Moll!" Then moving forward to where the sleeping child lay upon the
grass, the woman dropped on her knees beside her, bent down until her
face was on a level with the little one's, and reverently pressed her
lips to one of the small hands that were flung in a position of perfect
grace across the folds of the dwarf's worn brown jacket.

"Wait here till everything quiet," she breathed, leaning towards Bambo's
ear; "then fly for yer lives. Joe's as mad as mad! Make for the canal.
Bargee'll take ye on board if you tell him that these is the runaways
the beaks was on the hunt for. But don't split on us--leastways, not if
you can help it," added Moll, suddenly remembering how little reason she
had to expect mercy at the dwarf's hands. "An' now farewell! Don't
forget that Moll tried to do ye a good turn when she had the chance."
And giving Darby's head a rough pat, and casting another long look upon
the unconscious Joan, the woman clambered up the slope almost as quickly
as she had come down.

"Mercy me!" they heard her exclaim in accents of annoyance; "if this
bloomin' old lantern hasn't gone out! What ever'll you do, Joe?"

"Fool!" shouted Joe angrily. "Why, get it lighted agin, to be sure.
Come, hurry up. I ain't agoin' to stay here for ever."

"No more be I," answered his wife coolly. "You've burrowed enough roun'
in this direction, surely; leastways I have, an' now I'm goin' to get
some sleep. If you want that thing lighted, you can do it yerself, for I
won't. There!"

Directly after the dwarf heard her rapid steps retreating in the
direction of the hostelry, and again he blessed Moll Harris in his
heart; for he knew full well that the lantern had not been extinguished
accidentally, but by a quick-witted woman's willing fingers.




CHAPTER XIV.

AT EVENING TIME.

    "Ah! what would the world be to us
      If the children were no more?
    We should dread the desert behind us
      Worse than the dark before.

    "Ye are better than all the ballads
      That ever were sung or said;
    For ye are living poems,
      And all the rest are dead."

                   --LONGFELLOW.


It was not quite a week since Darby and Joan had so suddenly and
mysteriously disappeared from Firgrove; yet to the distracted aunts it
seemed as if years instead of days had dragged away since that bright
morning when they had bidden the little ones good-bye, and left them
standing among the pussies and the flowers, looking the picture of
health, beauty, and innocence. And where were they now? Dead, drowned,
Aunt Catharine felt convinced, although she had no further proof of
their fate than what was indicated by the finding of Darby's hat; for,
notwithstanding all their efforts, not another trace of the missing
children had been discovered. They had assuredly fallen into the canal,
argued Miss Turner. The locks were so often open, the keepers so dull
and unobservant, that their bodies might easily have drifted by without
being noticed. Then, once past Barchester, they would be washed away by
the next outgoing tide--far, far away, wrapped in a tangle of brown and
green seaweed; or perhaps they were lying fathoms deep beneath the
restless, shifting waters, whence they should rise no more until that
day "when the sea gives up its dead."

Nurse Perry took the same hopeless view of the children's fate as Miss
Turner. She wandered about from morning till night with Eric in her
arms, searching the most unlikely places, questioning everybody she met
in her eager desire to discover the lost little ones--"for all the
world," said cook, "like a creature that was off her head!" She grew
quite pale and thin, with a sad, frightened look in her eyes which even
the blandishments of Mr. Jenkins, when he came of a morning for orders,
could not banish; their rims were red, too, as from frequent tears, for
many a good cry poor Perry had. She blamed herself unreservedly for the
disappearance of her charges; and as Miss Turner believed that _she_
also was in fault, far more than Perry, they mourned and lamented in
company.

For during those days of sad suspense Aunt Catharine appeared an altered
woman. No longer stern and stately, self-satisfied and self-sufficient,
she and her sister seemed to have changed places. She it was who clung
to Miss Alice for sympathy and support in the sore trouble that had
befallen them. Miss Alice it was who kept brave and cheery--hoping
against hope that things were not actually so black as they looked; but
Miss Turner could not be coaxed to take any comfort to herself.

"It's very easy for _you_ to keep hopeful and calm," she would say to
her sister. "_You_ have nothing to reproach yourself with. You were
always soft and sweet and loving with them, whereas I--I was afraid to
let them see how closely they had wound themselves about my heart for
fear they should become petted and spoiled: so they thought me stern and
harsh, when I only meant to be firm and judicious; they believed me hard
and unsympathetic, when I was trying to teach them self-command and
obedience. Oh, why did I not win their hearts by tenderness, and gain
their allegiance by kindness, rather than seek to mould them after my
pattern by laying down laws and holding constantly before their eyes the
fear of punishment!"

"Don't grieve so, dear sister. You never were either unkind or harsh to
Darby and Joan. I'm sure no one could ever imagine any such thing,"
answered Miss Alice soothingly. "Every one knows, and Guy knew too,
before he went away, how dearly you loved the children."

"Yes, yes," said Miss Turner impatiently; "of course people would take
it for granted that I loved my nephew's little ones--and who could help
it?--but what I am angry with myself for is that I did not let them see
it. What good is love if one only shuts it up in one's heart to be
looked at in private? It must be seen and felt if it is to be of any
value, or to make any impression on its object. Ah! I was blind before,
but now I see things more plainly. Those two--Darby especially--have
gone away, wherever they are, with the idea that Aunt Catharine was in a
sense their enemy, who grudged them every bit of happiness they wanted
to have, while all the time I would willingly have given my life for
either of them. Oh, if they were only back, how different I would be!"
sobbed poor Aunt Catharine, leaning her aching head and faded face upon
her sister's shoulder.

"Hush, dear," coaxed Auntie Alice, in her soft, cooing voice. "You will
make yourself ill, and what should I do then? Besides, there is no use
in giving way like that--until we are sure there is no longer room for
hope, at any rate. It is not a week yet since the children disappeared.
There's no guessing where they may have gone--off to Africa to find
their father, as likely as not!" laughed Auntie Alice. "Darby would
start in a minute--you know how hazy are his ideas of places and
distance--and Joan follows wherever he leads. Some one will be finding
them wandering about and bringing them back to us directly, you'll see.
I shouldn't be a bit surprised," she added, in answer to her sister's
look of astonishment, in which there was mingled a faint ray of hope.
"And Dr. King agrees with me that it's some wild scheme or other that
has taken them off, although perhaps not just Africa."

"Dr. King!" exclaimed Miss Turner, with a touch of her former asperity;
"what does Dr. King know about the affair more than I do? But, of
course, he would agree with you--ay, if you said the moon was made of
green cheese!"

Miss Alice blushed prettily at her sister's words; indeed, she always
did blush when Dr. King's name was mentioned. Even Darby used to notice
it, and invariably fixed his eye upon his aunt to see the soft
rose-colour rise in the cheeks which were still smooth and round enough
to show off a blush becomingly.

"It's not alone Dr. King who believes they've gone off on some
wild-goose chase," continued Miss Alice presently. "The rector thinks so
too; and Mrs. Grey gets quite angry when her husband declares the
children are drowned."

"Maybe, maybe," replied, Miss Turner gloomily; "and I'm sure I hope
you're right. But one thing I'm certain of is that they've not set out
for Africa. Darby would never take such a ridiculous notion into his
head. He knew perfectly well how far away it is, and how people go
there. Why, if there was one thing I drummed into him thoroughly over
and above everything else--except the commandments, perhaps--it was
Africa! But all the same, it's the thought of Africa that's just killing
me, sister," moaned the poor lady in piteous tones. "What will their
father say? What will he think of us? How are we to tell him? for tell
him we must without further delay. That cablegram has got to go
to-morrow. It's all very well for Dr. King and Mr. Grey and the rest of
them to say, 'Wait, wait; time enough.' But we've waited too long
already, so to-morrow the message goes, as sure as my name's Catharine
Anne Turner. Then there's granny--Guy's poor mother at Denescroft. We've
put her off and kept her in the dark quite long enough, even if there is
a risk in letting her know the truth. I'm going there myself, Alice
Turner," announced Aunt Catharine resolutely, "the minute I get that
cablegram off my mind. I, and I alone, shall bear the pain of telling
her that the grandchildren she adored have gone to be with their mother
in heaven--her son's dear dead Dorothy. After that, I suppose the next
thing will be seeing about our black gowns," whispered the elder lady,
with a grievous burst of sorrow for which her sister had no words of
comfort ready, because she too was softly sobbing.

"Come, cheer up," said Miss Alice at length, after she had dried her
eyes. "Try to keep brave--for this one day at least. Who knows what may
happen! Why, at any moment they may walk in," she added brightly, and
her cheerfulness was not altogether assumed. For Auntie Alice could not
bring herself to believe that the children were really lost, or gone
from their sight for all time--that until they met together, small and
great, around the throne of God in heaven they should see them no more.
In the dead of night, when the house was still and baby sleeping quietly
in his bassinet by Perry's bedside, she would leave her room and go into
the nursery, where the sight of the empty cribs, the waiting garments,
the books and toys lying in their usual places, was almost more than she
could bear. Then she would feel with her sister that they were indeed
gone for ever, and an earnest prayer for the absent father, upon whom
the sudden blow would fall with stunning force, would wing its way out
of the silence of the midnight hours to the God who is so specially a
children's God. And would He not watch over them faithfully and keep
them in safety? Ay, surely. But whether He should give them back in life
to those who grieved so deeply for their loss, or fold them gently in
the everlasting security of His own bosom, was a question to which as
yet there had come no answer.

But in broad daylight, when the sky was blue, the sun shining, and the
kittens whisking merrily round after their own tails among the autumn
flowers in the garden, Auntie Alice was able to put away from her the
dread fears which in the darkness took such real and awful shapes, and
to agree with Dr. King and Mrs. Grey that the children had only gone off
for a frolic somewhere, and, like bad halfpence, would certainly come
back when least expected. They were not dead, she told herself; they
_could_ not be dead, she said in her heart over and over again. Darby,
the wise, manly little lad, many of whose quaint, sweet sayings were
carefully stored in his aunt's memory--Darby, with his clear eyes and
winning ways, lying among the mud and slime of the canal! Horrible! And
Joan, bright, merry, loving Joan--"little jumping Joan," she sometimes
called herself--the very sunbeam of prim, quiet Firgrove--Joan sleeping
among the fishes with folded hands and curtained eyes! Awful! And a long
shudder would seize Auntie Alice's slender figure. No, no! the children
were not drowned, she was certain; they would come back to them some day
and somehow: so from hour to hour she watched and waited, hoped and
prayed.

       *       *       *       *       *

And now it is time to return to the old lime-kiln and our little
travellers hidden there.

Being abruptly left to himself by Moll in the darkness--for the moon
was now hidden behind a bank of dense black cloud--Joe prowled and
stamped and beat furiously among the furze bushes, while now and again a
snarl of baffled rage broke from him which boded ill for the future of
the fugitives--if he could only lay his hands upon them!

In a short time, however, he concluded apparently that further search in
that quarter, and with no light to guide him save "the cold light of
stars," would prove fruitless, for his retreating footsteps seemed to
follow Moll's. Then Darby and the dwarf felt free to breathe again, and
held each other's hands in mute thanksgiving for their deliverance.

But hark! what was that? Steps once more--Joe, probably, come back with
the newly-lighted lantern to take a final look around. This time he
would search the kiln himself. Then--And the dwarf noiselessly changed
his position so that the dark bundle which was Joan lay behind him, and
wrapped his long arms tightly round the boy, determined to shield them
to the last against all danger.

The steps came nearer and nearer, slow and deliberate; then they stopped
as if in indecision, then came on again--not down the incline this time,
but advancing from the front. Faster and louder thumped the hearts of
Darby and the dwarf as they watched and waited; nearer and nearer drew
the black, shapeless _something_, until it halted right opposite the
mouth of the kiln, only a few yards away.

It must be Joe Harris, Bambo was sure. He had paused to strike a light,
and in another minute they should be discovered. Darby clung to his
protector with all his strength. His teeth chattered in terror, but the
brave little lad did not utter a sound.

The footsteps again, and Bambo closed his eyes an instant while his soul
rose to heaven in one of those earnest petitions which ofttimes are
prayed without a word. Then he looked towards the entrance to the kiln,
fully prepared to see the wicked face of Thieving Joe leering in upon
them--to hear his shout of satisfaction at beholding his prey so
securely caught in a trap from which there was no escape.

But instead of their enemy, what do you think stood there? Just an
innocent-looking red and white calf--probably one of the family, now at
grass, which had formerly occupied the snug house in the farmyard. It
was, doubtless, in the habit of coming to the old kiln occasionally for
a change, or for shelter in wet weather. And now it stood and surveyed
the intruders with solemn, serious eyes, as much as to say, "What are
you funny little folks doing in my place, pray?"

The sense of relief was so great, the situation seemed so ludicrous,
that Darby broke into a peal of shrill, nervous laughter, which he as
suddenly suppressed; while the dwarf again lifted his heart to Heaven in
grateful acknowledgment of deliverance from danger.

Darby fondled the calf's cold nose and stroked his rough, wet coat; and
Master Calf, seeing that his self-invited guests were not so odd or
fearsome as they looked, marched slowly inside, deliberately lay down in
what apparently was his own particular corner, and calmly commenced
chewing his cud. Then, with his hand in Bambo's and his head resting
against the animal's warm, shaggy side, Darby soon fell asleep; and the
dwarf dozed at intervals until the first streaks of dawn broke up the
blackness of the eastern sky.

       *       *       *       *       *

The _Smiling Jane_ came crawling along the canal towards Engleton,
gradually slowed, then stopped altogether as she hove abreast of the
wharf. It was thick with people standing about in twos and threes
awaiting the arrival of the boat. The bargeman jumped ashore, strutted
hither and thither, chatting with this one and that, discussing the
weather, retailing the latest gossip from Barchester, when, from behind
the pile of miscellaneous stuff collected on the wharf waiting transit
by the _Smiling Jane_, three small figures appeared suddenly, as if they
had sprung from the water beneath the planks. It was Bambo with his
little charges.

"Well, well!" exclaimed bargee, staring at the trio in open-mouthed
astonishment.

"Did ee ever!" cried a woman who was mounting guard over some hampers of
quacking ducks and cackling hens.

"The pretty dears!" ejaculated another; "eh, the sweet crayters! But
just look at _him_! See his big, ugly head, an' the arms o' him like the
flappers o' a win'mill! Save us all!" she piously added, gazing her fill
at the dwarf and the children, whose winsome faces and uncommon
appearance could not be concealed under a few days' smudges, nor
disguised beneath a cotton frock or faded velveteen suit.

Darby, who was to be spokesman for the party, here approached the
bargeman with frank, courteous manner; while the dwarf hung timidly in
the rear, still keeping Joan well within the shelter of his arm.

"Please, Mr. Bargee, will you take us in your boat as far as Firdale?"
begged the boy, in gentle, winning tones. "We've come a long way, and
Mr. Bambo here," pointing to the dwarf, "has such a bad cold that he's
not able to walk any further. Do say 'yes;' won't you, Mr. Bargee?"

For an instant the young fellow hesitated, looking from the boy to the
dwarf and the golden-haired girl. Then he shook his head decisively.

"Can't do it, little un," he said kindly. "It's agin the rules, an' I
durstn't break them. I was near gettin' the sack not long ago because a
couple o' tramps or play-actor folks over-persuaded me to give them a
lift. The perlice was on their track. Reg'lar sharpers they was. That
was only two or three days back, when them kids belongin' to Dene o'
Firgrove disappeared," explained bargee to the gaping loungers hanging
about the wharf.

"But we're Dene's kids! we come from Firgrove! Father--Captain Dene, you
know--left us there with Aunt Catharine and Auntie Alice when he went to
Africa," cried Darby, in eager, rapid snatches of speech.

"Likely!" laughed bargee good-humouredly. "Tell that to the marines,
chappie. Maybe _they'll_ b'lieve you, for Will Spiers don't. He's not
sich a green un as to be took in by a tale like that. Dene's kids was
drownded in the canal. Their clo'es or boots or somethin' was found the
other evenin'. Leastways, so I heerd," he added, with a look round the
company, as if challenging confirmation of his words.

"Ay, they was drownded, sure enough," spoke a woman's shrill voice, high
above the cackle of the hens and the quack-quack of the ducks--"drownded
dead, an' more's the pity; an' their ma dead, too, an' their pa in
Africa, an' their aunties takin' on terrible 'bout them."

"We isn't dwowned," called out Joan in her clear, sweet voice, shaking
back her yellow mane and surveying the faces about her with merry eyes.
"We was lost--quite lost--and now we's founded and goin' home again."

"Don't you see that we're not drowned?" said Darby seriously, turning
round and round before the amused onlookers. "We wouldn't be here if we
were _drownded_, would we? I'm really and truly Darby Dene--I mean Guy
Dene, for that's my proper name; and this is my sister Joan--Doris, I
should say--with kind Mr. Bambo, who has helped us to run away from some
wicked people who wanted to keep us always. Now, please, won't you let
us on board the barge? We'll go below into the little house where we hid
before, and not disturb you a bit. You see, we came with you, and you
ought to take us back again," added the boy, with a sudden gleam of
amusement in his big gray eyes.

Here the dwarf came slowly forward, painfully conscious that all eyes
were fixed upon him. Yet he did not flinch. He beckoned the bargeman
aside, and in a few broken, gasping sentences told him the main facts of
the children's story.

The instant the young fellow clearly grasped the situation and
understood his own share in the adventure, he generously cast all fear
of consequences to the winds, and there and then agreed to take the
travellers with him to Firdale as fast as his boat could bear them.

And as the old brown horse pulled slowly off, dragging the big red
barge-boat away behind him, a hearty cheer broke from the watchers on
the wharf, and "A safe journey!" was flung from every lip after the
_Smiling Jane_ and the little voyagers whom she bore on board.

It was a mild, mellow day, such as not infrequently comes towards the
end of October--a day whose brightness almost deludes one into thinking
that summer is not entirely gone, yet with a hint of change in the
still, waiting earth, the silently-falling leaves; a touch of crispness
in the air which foretells winter, and at the same time indicates that
winter is not really a bad time after all.

On the deck of the barge Joan made herself quite at home. She had been
so shielded that she was really none the worse, except for outward tear
and wear, of all she had gone through. She trotted hither and thither,
watching the patient horse plodding along the tow-path, throwing bits of
bread to the white-winged gulls which hovered in the wake of the boat,
chattering to bargee, who had speedily become her willing captive,
enchained in the meshes of her sunny hair, held fast by the innocent
witchery of her long-lashed violet eyes.

Down in the bunker below lay Bambo, too worn out now to do ought but
toss and tumble in the fever and restlessness which were hourly becoming
more consuming and distressing, thankful to be at liberty just to let
himself go, without fear or danger. For now he felt that the children
were, beyond a doubt, safe out of reach of Thieving Joe, and he himself
separated at last and for ever from all further connection with the
Satellite Circus Company. Soon the little ones should be safe at home
with their own people, and he, Bambo, homeless and friendless, should be
free from future care concerning them--free to creep away somewhere,
unnoticed and alone, to lie down and rest--sleep--suffer--or maybe die,
if such were God's will for him.

Beside the dwarf's pallet Darby kept loving watch, dozing from time to
time when Bambo seemed sleeping; again, rousing up to hang over him in
distress when he babbled so queerly about Firgrove, his mother, Thieving
Joe, Moll, and the bear. Then the raving would cease, and the dwarf
would look up with intelligent, grateful eyes into the white, anxious
face of the boy bending over him.

"It's only my head, sonny; you needn't be frightened," he would gasp, in
his hoarse, croaking whisper. "I was just wandering a bit, I think. Sick
folk often does that. There, deary, don't cry! we'll soon be at home
now--ay, soon, very soon," murmured the little man to himself, while
that faint, sweet smile, which Darby thought made the haggard face quite
beautiful, played around his poor parched lips, and a glad light shone
from his sunken eyes.

In the afternoon the good-natured bargeman brewed a can of tea. Along
with it he produced some solid slices of bread and butter--the best his
locker afforded--and to this repast he made his passengers warmly
welcome. Joan ate a hearty meal, but Darby was not hungry, and the dwarf
could take only a deep draught of the strong, hot tea. It revived him
somewhat, so that by the time the barge slowed up at Firdale he was
able, with the help of Darby's willing hand, to creep out of his bunker
up on deck.

The _Smiling Jane_ was in that evening rather before her regular time.
There were, therefore, none of the idlers on the wharf who usually
awaited her arrival, only a few people, beside the wharf-keeper, who had
come to receive or send off stuff. These were too much occupied to
notice, except by an amused or curious glance, the odd-looking trio who
slipped so quietly through their midst and away up the field-path
towards Firgrove. Indeed, had not bargee, after their backs were turned,
told their story and made known their identity to an open-mouthed and
delighted audience, no one would have suspected that the two little
ragamuffins in company with the outlandish-looking mountebank were the
lost children whose tragic fate had cast quite a gloom over the
neighbourhood, and elicited such universal sympathy with the ladies at
Firgrove and the poor bereaved father fighting for his country far, far
away in Africa.

It was almost sunset when the little travellers reached their journey's
end. The western sky was ablaze with crimson and gold, the hilltop was
flushed with warmth and beauty, the streak of sluggish water which was
the canal lay athwart the level land like a shining, jewelled belt,
while every window-pane in the quaint old house shone and glowed as if
there were an illumination within by way of welcome for the wanderers.

But Darby and Joan heeded none of these things. They trudged sturdily on
as fast as their short legs could carry them and the dwarf's failing
strength would permit, until they came to the gate. There they paused,
with their backs to the glory of the sun-setting, the blush on the
hilltop, and the radiance beyond. For now they knew that at last they
had found the country they had travelled so far to seek, while all the
time it was spread out wide and fair about their very feet, shut up
within themselves, whence it should well forth in an atmosphere of
obedience, love, duty--the chief elements which go to make a truly happy
land.




CHAPTER XV.

BAMBO'S FRIEND.

    "After the night comes the morning,
      After the winter the spring;
    We can begin again, Dolly,
      And be sorry for everything.

    "We love, and so we are happy;
      No beautiful thing ever ends;
    'Tis good to cry and be sorry,
      But better to kiss and be friends."

                        E. COXHEAD.


This evening the sisters were pacing arm in arm up and down the long,
wide gravel walk between the front door and the gate. Miss Turner looked
pinched and worn, with pale cheeks and great hollows about her eyes,
which were dim and dry as if from want of sleep. Her head was bent, her
step was slow like the step of an old person; and indeed she seemed
old--ten years older than the brisk and vigorous Aunt Catharine who had
trodden the same path with such a stately air only a week ago.

Miss Alice's gentle face also was thin and white. Her eyes, which were
big and gray like Darby's, and usually soft and calm in their glance,
were alert, bright, and restless, as if always on the watch for
something they could not see, while in her nut-brown hair there were
nearly twice as many silver streaks as had been visible when Darby and
Joan went away.

They had been speaking of the lost little ones, but now a silence had
fallen upon them which neither showed any desire to break. There was
nothing more to say except what had already been said over and over
again. Everything had been done that they and wise, kind neighbours
could do or suggest; and on the morrow Dr. King and Mr. Grey would put
the case into the hands of the Barchester police--more to satisfy Miss
Turner than from any faith in the result on their own part. The Firdale
men had done their best and failed; what cleverer would they be in
Barchester?

The air had grown chilly, although the sun was not yet set, and Miss
Turner shivered, as much from nervousness as from cold. Her sister was
drawing her within doors, when the latch of the gate clicked sharply,
and both ladies turned round to look in its direction.

And what did they see as the wide iron gate swung slowly back on its
hinges? The oddest looking group that had ever sought entrance to
Firgrove--the most pathetic, yet the most grotesque! First and foremost
was a small boy in soiled, sodden garments--hatless, unwashed,
unbrushed, tired, drooping, and travel-stained, yet with an expression
of unutterable gladness beaming from out a pair of clear gray eyes that
seemed far too big for the thin white face which they illumined. By his
side, holding fast by the boy's hand, stood a little girl--bedraggled,
unkempt, untidy, with a glimmer of pearly teeth, and great blue eyes
gleaming out from a mop of tangled curls that glittered as if they had
caught within their burnished strands all the sunbeams which had lighted
up that bright October day. And leaning against the pillar of the gate
was the third figure of the party, and the queerest--a tiny man, not
much taller than the little girl, with huge head, long arms, shrivelled,
haggard face, and deep-set, eager eyes--a dwarf, in short, and, at the
first glance, the most uncouth that ever was seen.

Miss Turner drew herself up in astonishment and annoyance at the
ill-timed intrusion of the three little tramps. A something in the
boy's eyes, however, arrested the words of rebuke and dismissal which
hung ready to fall from her lips, and she looked at them again before
stepping forward to shut the gate in their faces.

But Miss Alice's sight was quicker than her sister's, her instincts
truer, her faith stronger, and with a low, glad cry of "My dears! my
dears!" she sprang, swift as a girl, toward the children, bent down, and
Darby and Joan felt themselves gathered close and tight within Auntie
Alice's loving arms; while from Aunt Catharine's eyes the thankful tears
rained thick and fast, mingled with a shower of kisses, upon their
smiling, upturned faces.

"We's comed home again, Aunt Catharine," announced Joan cheerfully and
easily, as if the pair of them had just returned from church. "Is you
glad to see us?" she asked, smiling sweetly into her aunt's swimming
eyes.

"Yes, Joan, very, very glad; I don't think you'll ever know _how_ glad,"
answered Miss Turner gravely.

"Darby and me went away to look for the Happy Land--like what nurse
sings 'bout, don't you know?--far, far away," explained the little
girl. "But we didn't find it after goin' miles and miles and miles;
we only finded a old carawan, and some bad peoples, and Puck, and a
_ee-mornous_ (enormous) bear! Now we's back, and I's awful hung'y!
Is there any cake or cold puddin', or anythin' good for tea?" she
inquired anxiously, looking audaciously up into the familiar face of Aunt
Catharine--familiar, of course, yet with a something so new and strange
in its softened lines that the little one instinctively put up a dirty
hand and softly stroked her aunt's cheek, murmuring as she did so, in
her sweet, cooing voice, "Poor Aunt Catharine! Joan loves you, and
willn't never, never go away from you any more. Now, please tell me,
_is_ there anythin' good for tea?" she demanded.

"Joan!" exclaimed Darby in a shocked undertone, as if mere creature
comforts like cake and cold pudding were not to be thought of at such a
time. Then he addressed his aunt.

"Joan's quite correc'," he said, standing right in front of her, bravely
bent on confession of his naughtiness and getting it over as quickly as
possible, so that he could start fair with a clean sheet. "I was mad
because you punished me, and we made up a plan--at least I did--to run
away and find the Happy Land, and I coaxed Joan to come with me. It's
all my fault, Aunt Catharine; so whatever putting to bed or catechism
there is I'll take it, for I was the naughty one. But we found out that
there's no Happy Land at all--at least not like what I thought. Our
Happy Land's here at Firgrove, and oh, but we're glad to get back to
it!--Aren't we, Joan?"

"Yes, werry, werry glad," agreed Joan readily.

"And I'm never going to be disobedient or troublesome, never, never any
more, if you'll forgive me this time, Aunt Catharine, and let me begin
over again," begged the boy, slipping a grimy little paw into Aunt
Catharine's spotless hand.

"Forgive you, child!" cried Aunt Catharine, in a broken voice. "Why, of
course I'll forgive you, and we'll both begin over again, Darby," she
whispered.

"That's right," he replied cheerily. "And I'm going to try to make a
Happy Land all about me wherever I am. Mr. Bambo 'splained it to me ever
so nicely. He's very clever, you know. This is he," said Darby, pointing
to the dwarf, who still leaned, as if for support, against the pillar of
the gate.

Bambo advanced a step, tried to speak, but his voice was too hoarse to
be intelligible.

"He's my own dear dwarf!" declared Joan, patting the little man's
shoulder with gentle, caressing touch.

"He is called Bambo, but his real own name is Green--Jimmy Green; Green,
our gardener's grandson, Aunt Catharine," explained Darby in rapid
sentences. "The wicked man and woman took us to their caravan when we
were on our way to look for the Happy Land, and only for Bambo we should
not have known where to find it. We love him, Aunt Catharine, Auntie
Alice. He is ill--very ill, I think. Won't you please be good to him,
both of you?" pleaded the boy, in eager, coaxing accents.

The ladies looked from Darby to the dwarf in a bewildered way. Again he
attempted to explain his presence there, and again he failed. He was
about to steal quietly away--for was not his work done, his mission
accomplished?--when all at once the ground seemed to slip from beneath
his feet; he swayed, reeled, and with a low moan, as of a hurt animal,
fell on the grass border within the gate, at the very feet of the
children whose safety he had counted of so much more consequence than
his own life.

Darby flung himself on the ground beside the still, pathetic little
figure, and Joan, with sobs and cries, implored her dear dwarf to open
his eyes, to waken up and speak to his own little missy once more. But
the dwarf did not move or speak. His ears were deaf to Darby's tender
tones and Joan's insistent pleading.

At this moment Nurse Perry, with Eric in her arms, popped her head out
at the front door--just to get a breath of fresh air, as she would have
said. For a long minute she gazed at the group by the gate; then with a
loud cry, and dumping baby down upon the door mat, she flew along the
gravel path, and flinging her arms around the children, she laughed and
cried over them by turns.

"My precious pets!" she sobbed. "And have they come back to their poor
old Perry? And us thinkin' you was both dead and drownded in the canal.
Oh, did I ever!"

"There, nurse, that will do. You'd choke a fellow," declared Darby,
wriggling himself out of her clinging embrace. "Of course we're not
either dead or drowned. How can you be so silly?"

"Eh! and is it silly you call me for near frettin' myself into the grave
about you?" cried nurse, stung by Master Darby's want of feeling.--"Miss
Joan won't call nursie silly; sure you won't, lovey? And aren't you
glad to get back to your own Perry, and baby, and everything?"

"Yes, werry glad," agreed Joan readily; "and I hope you've got lots and
lots of jam and goodies for tea. Has you, nurse? 'cause I's as hung'y as
hung'y as anythin'!" she whimpered.

"Yes, darlin', there's a seed-cake and toast, and a whole pot of
beautiful strawberry jam that has never been touched. I couldn't eat
hardly a mouthful these days for picterin' my pretty lyin' in the mud at
the bottom of that slimy, smellin' canal," whined Perry, wiping her eyes
on the corner of a much-betrimmed white apron.

"That'll do, Perry," called out Miss Turner, in her usual brisk tones.
"Come here; I want you."

"Yes, ma'am," answered Perry meekly. "But oh, ma'am, what's _that_?" she
screamed, noticing for the first time the odd little object on the grass
over which the ladies were so anxiously bending. "What ever is it, Miss
Alice? Is it a _man_--_that_? and is he living?" the woman inquired in a
shocked whisper, drawing back her skirts, and gaping with eyes and mouth
at the quiet figure huddled in a little heap at Miss Turner's feet. Yet
when Perry had been made to understand that it was even to this small
creature they owed the safety and return of their darlings, she was as
warm in her expressions of gratitude and as eager to be kind to him as
her mistresses themselves.

Bambo was carried to a pleasant top room overlooking the lawn and the
cedar tree, and laid in a comfortable bed--the most comfortable in which
his poor body had ever lain in all his weary life. But its softness did
not soothe him; the down pillows were not restful; he paid no heed to
the cool freshness of the linen: for when he recovered from the stupor
into which he had sunk beside the gate, he was in the grip of an enemy
which he would have a hard fight to shake off. The wet and cold to which
he had been exposed without sufficient clothing, together with the
fatigue he had undergone, working on a constitution already in a
critical condition, had brought on pneumonia; and when Dr. King saw him,
late that night, he had little hope of being able to save his life.

The next morning, after a long, sound sleep and a good breakfast of
porridge and milk, Joan was as bright as a button, petted by Perry,
playing with baby, and teasing the pussies. Her troubles were behind,
and she did not talk much about her adventures.

But Darby was weak, wandering, and feverish. Dr. King said, however,
that his illness was merely the effect of excitement and the strain upon
a not over strong system. He would be all right in a few days. He
chattered incessantly of the Happy Land, Bruno, Joe, Moll, and the
monkey, but in broken snatches from which no reliable information could
be gleaned.

Miss Turner would have liked to send the police after the Harrises
without a single hour's delay. It was dreadful, she declared, to think
of such a wicked pair being permitted to wander at large, working
mischief without let or hindrance. But her friends advised her to wait
until Darby was well enough to be questioned; or possibly the dwarf
might yet be able to furnish such a clue to their haunts and habits as
should enable the police to pounce upon them unawares.

For a few days Darby continued in a low and feeble condition; then he
took a turn for the better, and soon he was strong enough to listen to
Joan's merry prattle, and to be amused by baby's funny attempts at
speaking. The weather was still mild and bright; so as soon as he was
able to be about he was allowed out into the garden, where the kittens
loved to sun themselves in the sheltered corner down by the boxwood
border.

Still Bambo's life hung trembling in the balance. The actual disease had
abated, but his weakness and want of vitality made his recovery seem
almost impossible. One hour he would revive somewhat, and the next sink
so low that Miss Turner and Miss Alice felt that at any moment the end
might come. Between them they kept constant watch beside the faithful
creature, feeling as if nothing that they might do could repay him for
the devotion which he had displayed towards the children. Bit by bit
they had gathered from Darby and Joan the story of their quest of the
Happy Land, what befell them by the way, and all that the dwarf had done
to deliver them from the clutches of Thieving Joe, and the captivity of
life dragged out within the narrow compass of the Satellite Circus
Company's old yellow caravan.

At last a day came when the poor dwarf smiled up into Miss Turner's
anxious face with a world of intelligence and gratitude in the eyes
whose sweet expression made the wan, pinched features look almost
beautiful to the aunt of Darby and Joan. She did not regard him as an
object utterly unlike other people, a bit of lumber for which the world
could have no real use or fitting place. She remembered only that by
this man's promptitude and courage two innocent, helpless children had
been rescued from a fate infinitely worse than a peaceful death, with a
green grave under the daisies, and those who loved them delivered from a
lifelong sorrow. So there were real gladness and true thankfulness in
Aunt Catharine's look and voice as she laid a cool hand upon the
invalid's brow, saying kindly,--

"You are better, are you not, Bambo?--that is, if it is Bambo I am to
call you."

"Yes, ma'am, I do feel better," answered the dwarf, in a low, quavering
voice. "And, please, call me Bambo; it is the name little master and
missy knows me by."

"You have been very ill, but you will soon be stronger and able to see
the children. They come to the door very often to ask for you."

A flush of pleasure crept into the dwarf's hollow cheeks. He was not
used to having anybody asking after his health, or interested in him in
any way. Then Miss Turner held a cup of nice strong soup to his lips,
and soon after he fell into a sweet, refreshing sleep, which lasted many
hours.

Dr. King was standing by the bedside when he awoke.

"You've had a close shave, my lad!" he said, in his quick, direct way.
"You'll pull through now though.--Plenty of nourishment and perfect
rest, that's all he wants in the meantime," added the doctor to Miss
Turner, as he hurried off to visit another patient, or perhaps to have a
little chat with Miss Alice, who was amusing Darby in the garden, where
the bees buzzed and worked about their hives along the sunny south wall.

After seeing the doctor down the stairs Miss Turner came back to the
dwarf, and as she entered the room she saw him turn his face away from
the window to the wall with a sigh, which filled her heart with pity for
the forlorn little being.

"Now, Bambo," she began, "you have done so much for me and mine that I
want you to let me be as kind to you as I know how. You have been more
than a friend to my dear nephew's children. I desire above all things to
be a friend to you."

"O ma'am, that is impossible," answered the dwarf in a choked voice.
"You are a lady, while I am nobody--an insignificant, despised object!
And don't you know who I really am? Green, your gardener's
grandson--Jimmy Green the dwarf, the boy who ran away from Firgrove long
ago, when you and Miss Alice were in foreign parts for your eddication!"

"I believe my sister and I were in Paris at that time," answered Miss
Turner lightly. "But what difference does the fact of your being Green's
grandson make, except to give you an additional claim upon our
friendliness? And, Bambo, your grandfather is truly sorry he treated you
harshly and unjustly in the past. He has asked me to tell you so, and to
say that instead of feeling ashamed of you now, he's really proud to
think what you have done for Master Darby and Miss Joan."

"'Twas nothing, nothing," murmured the dwarf in confusion, although his
beaming face plainly showed the gratification he felt at his
grandfather's message.

"And now," resumed Miss Turner, "if I am to be your friend, you must
tell me why you sighed so sadly just now. Come; you won't refuse, I am
sure," she added in a persuasive tone.

For a while there was silence in the room. Miss Turner waited for the
dwarf to speak. He kept his face towards the wall, and from time to time
put up a long, thin hand to wipe away the big tears that forced their
way beneath his closed eyelids to trickle slowly on to the snowy pillow
in which his head was half hidden.

At length he raised himself in the bed and looked straight at Miss
Turner. And as he met the kindly glance of her keen, true eyes, a quick
smile parted his lips and shone like a flicker of pale sunlight all over
his worn features.

"You are very good, ma'am, so good that because you ask me I will tell
you. Well, I was only wishing that I had not got better. I have been
ailing for a while back--since last spring--and I was kind of looking
forward to getting away home soon," said Bambo, as calmly as if he were
talking of a journey to Barchester. "You see, ma'am, it's this way," he
explained, in an apologetic tone. "When a body's made like me--just an
object for folks to pity, laugh, jeer, and peep at, without a real
friend--the world is a poor place in comparison to that one the Lord has
prepared and waiting for all who love Him and want to go there."

"Don't, Bambo, don't!" implored Miss Turner, looking at the dwarf
through a mist of tears. "You make me feel that I, who have always been
strong and well, am one of those who have done so little to make life a
less burdensome possession, a pleasanter thing for such as you. Do not
be so anxious to depart, dear friend. The little ones love you; your old
grandfather needs you. Here you shall always find a home. At Firgrove we
will make a place for you as soon as you shall be able to fill it.
Meantime you have nothing to do but try to get well. Perfect rest and
plenty of nourishment--these are the doctor's orders, and there's
nothing for it but obedience."

The dwarf drank in Miss Turner's words, hardly daring to believe he was
in his sober senses, for they sounded almost too good to be true. He to
stay on at Firgrove with the dear boy and sweet little missy! What had
he done that he should be so kindly treated, so generously dealt with?
Nothing, Bambo said to himself, less than nothing, for there had been
scarcely anything to do.

Nothing? Ah! was it nothing to be willing to lay down his life for those
friends of his? nothing to give the cup of cold water in the name of
Jesus to two of His children? "Verily, inasmuch as ye have done it unto
one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me."

From that day the dwarf grew rapidly better, and before the flowers were
all gone out of the borders, or the last red and yellow leaves had
fluttered from the lime tree on the lawn, he was able to saunter up and
down the gravel paths, his hand on Darby's shoulder, the baby holding
fast by one of his fingers, with Joan and the kittens frolicking among
their feet, and racing here, there, and everywhere, all over the place.

He quite agreed with Miss Turner that from no mistaken feelings of mercy
or pity should Joe Harris be shielded from the reach of the law, so he
gave all the information that he could supply concerning the rascal's
favourite resorts and usual associates. He and the little ones pleaded
hard on Moll's behalf; but Dr. King declared that in her case the
receiver was as bad as the thief, and she would just have to take her
chance along with her husband.

Soon the Barchester police were on their track. They came across Tonio
wandering disconsolately about the streets, with only Puck for company.
He, however, knew nothing of the movements of his late master, except
that the caravan had been returned to its lawful owner, and that the
Satellite Circus Company, as a company, had ceased to exist.

But neither Joe, Moll, nor Bruno was anywhere to be found. They had a
long start of their pursuers; consequently they had disappeared as
completely as last year's snow, leaving not a trace behind.




CHAPTER XVI.

COMING AND GOING.

    "For me, my heart that erst did go
    Most like a tired child at a show,
      That sees through tears the mummers leap,
    Would now its wearied vision close,
    Would childlike on His love repose
      Who giveth His beloved--sleep."

                     E. B. BROWNING.


The winter, which proved a mild and open one, passed very pleasantly at
Firgrove. By Dr. King's orders Darby and Joan were granted a long
holiday, for Darby was still fragile and delicate looking. He had never
quite got over the effects of the excitement and fatigue of his travels
in search of the Happy Land. They now lived almost out of doors, with
the dwarf as their faithful attendant and constant companion. The little
ones never wearied of his company, he could entertain them in so many
different ways. He showed Darby how to make whistles of the hollow
bore-tree stem, and a huge kite, with a lion painted on its surface, the
Union Jack flying at its head, and an old map of Africa cut into strips
to form the tail. Darby considered this a masterpiece, and laid it
carefully by until he could display it to his father in its full
significance. He caught a squirrel in the wood for Joan, and tamed the
little animal so that it would nibble a nut from her hand, or hold it in
its own paws, looking at her the while with fearless, shining eyes, as
much as to say,--

"Thank you, little lady. If all children were as good and kind to us
wild creatures as you at Firgrove are, we should have a better time of
it than many of us often have."

He brought primrose roots from the glen, and planted a bank with them
behind the house. He filled the rockeries with rare ferns, and covered
over all the waste corners about the grounds with delicate anemones,
variegated hyacinths, and the sweet, wild white bluebell, rifled from
the darkest recesses of Copsley Wood.

He carved curious wooden animals and toys for Eric, attracting the
little fellow so strongly to himself that often he would cry for
"Bam'o," and stay quite happily with him for hours, when all poor
Perry's nursery tricks had failed to divert him from brooding over a
coming tooth or some other infant ailment. Nurse soon grew to count the
dwarf among her blessings at Firgrove; while Miss Alice used to smile,
and say to her friend Dr. King that she did not know how ever the
children had amused themselves before he came.

And day by day, by his little acts of fore-thought for others and
loving-kindness towards all with whom he came in contact, he showed them
what a Happy Land even the humblest, the youngest can create around
them, what an atmosphere of love, what a foretaste of the existence
whose essence is love, because God is its centre--that heaven wherein
the pure in heart shall dwell for evermore!

And what of Bambo himself? How can one picture or describe such deep
happiness as his? He was well aware that he could not live long. At any
time a cold or a chill might hasten the end, yet the knowledge caused
him no real regret. During his years of loneliness and privation he had
learned to regard death as an open door through which he should escape
from drudgery, ill-treatment, desolation, into the rest, the love, the
happiness that remain to the children of God in that home where there
is no death, "neither sorrow, nor crying, nor any more pain: for the
former things are passed away." Now, the wretchedness was all behind.
His daily path was hedged around by affection and watchfulness; but
Bambo felt that it could not continue. His friends would by-and-by weary
of their self-imposed burden. The children would grow up, go away, form
new friendships, find fresh interests in life, and where should he be
then? No, no; life was a grand, a satisfying, a beautiful thing for the
clever, the strong, the brave; but the like of him could have no
continuous part, no fixed place in its keen warfare; so for him he felt
that it was better to depart than to hang on a weary, sickly weakling.
Therefore, when Darby and Joan were looking forward to the coming summer
and making their plans for enjoying it, in all of which they included
their little friend, the dwarf would smile--his sweet, childlike
smile--and say nothing. He did not want to cast a shadow upon their
gladness.

The children frequently had letters from their father, for whom they
longed with an eagerness that grew keener as the months went by and
still the cruel warfare continued, and always the date of his return
was put back from time to time. Oh, why did he not come, they cried.
They had so much to tell, so many things to show--lots of precious
trifles given and gathered since he went away.

Slowly the winter seemed to pass, day by day, week after week, month in
month out. Then spring came shyly creeping over the land, with snowdrops
nestling in her breast, primroses and violets budding in the grassy
banks beneath her feet. Later on pink and white blossoms crowned the
orchard trees, balmy breezes gently stirred the opening leaves, azure
skies stretched high overhead, daisies carpeted the ground under foot.
At length it was actually summer--summer in the first flush of her
fresh, untarnished loveliness. And as the children looked out of the
nursery window one bright May morning, they remembered with a sudden
thrill of joy that at last daddy was coming home. Any day he might be
with them--any hour, in fact; for even at that moment the ship might be
lying snug and safe at anchor in Southampton Water!

That very evening he arrived--not Captain, but Major Dene, for he had
been promoted while he was away. Joan flung herself wildly upon her
father, hugging and kissing him with all her might for a minute or two;
then she turned her attentions and her fingers towards his pockets, in
search of whatever spoil she could find. Darby stood silent and shy,
gazing with wide, troubled eyes upon the tall, gaunt man who carried
such a cruel scar across the hollow of his bronzed cheek. Then with a
low, sobbing cry of "Father! father!" the little lad clasped his arms
about his father's neck, and on his father's breast wept out some of the
ache, the loneliness, the longing which for many lagging months had lain
in such a heavy weight upon his tender, faithful, loving heart.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Why mayn't we go up to see Bambo this morning, Aunt Catharine?" asked
Darby next day, as soon as he and Joan had eaten their breakfast. "We
didn't see him at all yesterday, and I have so much to tell him about
father and the Boers and Africa and--and--everything."

"And I wants to take him some marigolds," said Joan, holding up a huge
bunch nearly as big as her own head.

Aunt Catharine was silent, and Darby almost dropped the rod he was
trimming into a stick for baby and looked up into his aunt's face. It
was pale and sad, and there were tears in her eyes. "What is it, Aunt
Catharine?" inquired the boy. "Has anything vexed you, or are you angry
with us?" he added timidly; while Joan rubbed her rosy face up and down
against her aunt's hand, for all the world like a confident kitten.

"No, dears, I'm not angry with either of you; why should I?" answered
Aunt Catharine quickly. "But I have something to say that will make you
both sad, and I don't like doing so."

"It is about Bambo, I am certain," said Darby slowly, throwing down the
rod he was whittling, shutting up his precious knife and putting it into
his pocket, while a shadow fell upon his face, and clouded the gladness
in his eyes. "He's not up yet, and when we were going to his room after
we were dressed, nurse dragged us downstairs again; and she looked so
funny, as if something had frightened her."

"Please let me go to my dear dwarf, Aunt Catharine," coaxed Joan. "One
of Topsy's legs is comin' off, and nobody knows how to mend it 'cept
Bambo."

"Bam'o! Bam'o!" cried Eric, at the top of his voice. "Bam'o! tum an' div
baby swing--high, high!"

"There, Alice, you tell them, for upon my word I can't," whispered Miss
Turner to her sister, who had come into the breakfast-room just behind
the children; and catching Eric up in her arms, Aunt Catharine carried
him outside into the glory and promise which the beauty of the summer
morning held for her saddened spirit.

"Bambo won't be able to mend your doll to-day, Joan," said Auntie Alice
gently, lifting the little girl on to her lap and drawing Darby close
beside her knee. "He will never talk to you, or amuse you, or do
anything for any of us again; because last night, after we were all
asleep except your father and Aunt Catharine, God's messenger came and
whispered to him that he was wanted--that his errand on earth was done.
And early this morning, long before you were awake, when the young birds
were yet nestling in the warmth of their mother's wing, ere the lambs
were astir in the fields, when the world was hushed in that sweet
stillness which awaits the dawn, he went away--away where he will not be
weak or sickly any more, where he will no longer be Jimmy Green, the
gardener's poor grandson, or Bambo, Joe Harris's musical dwarf, but a
new creature, with a new name--a name that is written in the Lamb's book
of life!"

Then Auntie Alice soothed and petted the little creatures, talking to
them in her soft, caressing voice, telling them once again of that fair
country to which their friend had gone. And when their sorrow had sobbed
itself dry they stole away to find their father, going on tiptoe, as if
they feared to disturb the slumber of their little comrade.

Three days later the dwarf was laid to rest in a corner of the Firdale
churchyard beside his mother. Major Dene erected over the spot a rugged
granite cross with his name upon it, his age, and the date of his death.
And below this he caused to be cut another name--the name by which the
dwarf always seemed to know himself best, because by it he was known to
those whom he had loved and served so faithfully and so well:--

    BAMBO.

    "_Sown in dishonour, raised in glory._"

"Now, what you all require is a thorough change," said Dr. King when he
called at Firgrove a few days after Bambo's death. "The young people
here have both been through a great deal.--You, my dear sir," to Major
Dene, "must make the most of your time, and build up your strength as
firmly as possible before you go back to Africa. The ladies, too," he
continued, addressing Miss Turner and Miss Alice, "will be all the
better of a little holiday, a complete change before--ah--in short,
before any further changes take place." And the staid elderly doctor
beamed upon Miss Alice, who held down her head, toyed with Joan's curls,
and blushed in a most becoming way--the sort of blush which made her
gentle face look almost like a girl's again.

"What's you's cheeks gettin' so red for--just like as if you'd got the
toofache, eh?" demanded Joan, with awkward directness.

"Are you too hot, Auntie Alice? Shall I draw down the blind?" asked
Darby politely. "Or would you prefer to come out into the garden?"

"Yes--no--thank you, dear--that is--" stammered Auntie Alice, in such
painful confusion that, although intensely amused, Major Dene felt
obliged to come to her rescue.

"Look here, kids!" he said: "I expect you're bound to know later on, so
you may as well be told now. Come, and be introduced to your future new
uncle--_our_ new uncle!" he added with a laugh, at the same time leading
the little ones up to Dr. King.

"Oh!" exclaimed Joan, drawing a long breath and surveying the doctor
with her head sideways, like a fastidious young robin eyeing a crumb.
"Is that why you was allus comin' to ask if we had headiks, or
stumukiks, or if baby wanted castor-oil, and to look at our tongues? I
s'pose uncles is like that. Never had none before," she added, still
gazing at the stout, bald-headed gentleman in front of her, as if the
honour of being her future relative had invested him with a new
personality and lent him fresh interest in her eyes.

"What'll Aunt Catharine do without you?" asked Darby of Auntie Alice
somewhat reproachfully, and giving but a limp, indifferent shake to the
hand which Dr. King held out as a peace-offering.

Auntie Alice glanced timidly and sadly at her sister, for this was the
one bitter drop in her cup of sweetness--this severing of the ties which
for years and years had bound the two Misses Turner as closely together
as the Siamese twins almost.

"Tush!" cried Aunt Catharine briskly, although there were tears in her
eyes. "She's not going out of the country. Beechfield is but a short
walk from Firgrove; we can meet every day, if we want to. Besides, I
have you children, and your father will be back and forward between this
and Denescroft--for a while, anyway," added she, laying a loving hand
on Darby's head.

The boy pressed closely to her side; but Joan confidently clambered upon
her knee, and laid her golden head against her aunt's shoulder.

"Aunt Catharine has got me," she announced, flinging her arms round that
lady's neck, creasing the dainty lace collar, crumpling the delicate
lilac ribbons, tumbling the neatly-banded hair. But Aunt Catharine did
not seem to mind; in fact, she looked as if she rather enjoyed the feel
of those soft little hands upon her face, the pressure of those clinging
arms about her neck. "I'll stay wif her allus and allus. I used to like
Auntie Alice best, but she's got _him_," Joan went on, pointing a small
pink finger at Dr. King, who, it must be admitted, looked a trifle
sheepish at being so frankly and openly sat upon in family council; "so
now I's goin' to give the most of the love to Aunt Catharine," she
declared, bestowing upon her aunt a shower of hearty kisses. "And I'm
never goin' to leave her, never, never--unless," she added thoughtfully,
"she gets a doctor man too, by-and-by. Then I'd just have to stay wif
daddy."

Darby giggled behind Aunt Catharine's back, and the others laughed
heartily.

"What would you say to Scotland?" asked Dr. King, well pleased to get
gracefully away from a subject which he had been feeling rather
personal. "That would be a change indeed--the very thing after South
Africa," he added, looking with a keen professional eye at Major Dene's
gaunt cheeks and too sharply outlined profile. "There are some pleasant
places on the west coast--bracing, yet not too cold. In my boyhood I
spent a summer in a village called St. Aidens. It was out of the way,
certainly, but you could not go to a more delightful spot."

"St. Aidens!" echoed Miss Turner, with a note of pleasure in her voice.
"Why, I stayed there one year too, long ago, with my father. Yes, let us
go to St. Aidens by all means," she said heartily. "Your mother could
come with us," she continued, addressing her nephew.--"And you," turning
to the doctor, "I daresay Alice will make you welcome if you will join
us during our stay."

So there and then the question was settled, and by the second week in
June to St. Aidens the family went.

       *       *       *       *       *

It is the time of the yearly fair at St. Aidens. The buying and selling
are done, and now the people who have flocked thither in crowds are free
to enjoy the shows and performances which make the fair a festival to
be looked forward to and back upon as the chief outing of the season.

There are many items of attraction. Here Punch and Judy make public
their domestic broils for the benefit of the onlookers--old, young, and
middle-aged--whom this sample pair never fail to draw around them
wherever they appear. There an Indian juggler squats, the centre of a
gaping circle, as without a grimace he swallows swords, scissors,
knives, old nails, and scraps of metal that would tax the stomach of an
ostrich. Farther away is an Italian basket-maker, with olive skin and
oily manners; while leaning listlessly against the railing behind him is
a woman--his wife, probably--with dusky hair, and sad dark eyes which
hardly seem to see her green love-birds pecking knowingly at their pack
of dirty cards. Along near the pier a negro minstrel with his banjo is
singing one of the simple melodies of his race, its sad, sweet refrain
almost drowned in the roars of laughter called forth by a chalky-faced
clown, who appears to be not a compound of flesh, blood, and nerves like
ordinary mortals, but just a bundle of wire springs and india-rubber
balls.

The hobby-horses go round and round, with their ever-changing load, in
monotonous regularity. The switchback railway sways up and down to the
time of its own mechanical music, amid shrieks of delight and peals of
merriment; while youngsters yell aloud with excitement or fear as the
gaudily-painted gondolas swing them up higher and higher than before.

The noise is deafening. Between the cries of ice-cream vendors, the
high-pitched eloquence of medicine-men, peddlers, tired children, and
scolding mothers, it is well-nigh maddening. Still the crowd elbows and
jostles along, gradually growing noisier and denser. There they mingle
shoulder to shoulder, the squalid and the well-to-do, lads and lasses,
boys and girls, husbands and wives, grave and gay; while friendly
greetings are exchanged, light jests bandied as they move backwards and
forwards, intent upon the fun of the fair, with hardly a glance for the
feast of beauty which nature has spread around them with such a lavish
hand.

Along the level ground above the beach the tents and caravans are drawn
up in orderly array. Stretching away from the shore is the bay, lying
calm and unruffled under the summer sky, except when its glassy surface
is rippled by the dip of an oar or churned into froth by the restless
pulsations of a passing steamer. Across the bay the hills rise
beautiful and purple-blue through the evening glow, throwing out
encircling arms around the villages dotted thick and white along their
base, as the arms of a mother are open wide to infold her nestling
children.

Away to the left the bay stretches on till its waters are merged in
ocean; while to the east, above the little town, with its swarming
streets, its bustling railway station, its quiet cemetery, its chimneys,
and its spires, rises another range of hills, seeming in their nearness
like a God-built barrier between that old-world village on the Scottish
coast and the steadily advancing steps of the great city which lies
beyond.




CHAPTER XVII.

ADIEU!

    "We need love's tender lessons taught
      As only weakness can;
    God hath His small interpreters--
      The child must teach the man.

    "Of such the kingdom! Teach Thou us,
      O Master most divine,
    To feel the deep significance
      Of these wise words of Thine!

    "The haughty eye shall seek in vain
      What innocence beholds;
    No cunning finds the key of heaven,
      No strength its gate unfolds.

    "Alone to guilelessness and love
      That gate shall open fall;
    The mind of pride is nothingness,
      The childlike heart is all."

                           WHITTIER.


Six o'clock had chimed from the church tower, and already the sun's rays
were falling slantwise across the water, and tingeing the kingly heights
of Arran with a royal purple radiance.

On a bench, somewhat removed from the bustle and the hubbub, Major Dene
sat smoking and dreaming. He had come out a little while before to seek
the children, who, along with Perry, were enjoying the fresh sights and
novelties to the full. From where he lounged he could see them standing
on the fringe of a crowd that had rapidly collected on the road right in
front of one of the hotels.

It was not a safe stand for little people; not a fitting place for them
to be, either. Perry should have more sense and less curiosity, thought
Major Dene, as he sent the stump of his cigar hissing and sputtering
into the placid blue water at his feet, and rose to join the children
and accompany them home; for it was their tea-time, and going on quickly
for the dinner-hour at Westfield, the comfortable house where the family
from Firgrove had temporarily taken up their abode.

All this time the youngsters had been straining and tiptoeing to get a
glimpse at whatever was causing so much interest and excitement amongst
those of the pleasure-seekers who were fortunate enough to have a peep.
Just then the crowd swayed and split, so that through the opening they
had an uninterrupted view of the performers who had drawn about them so
many of the sightseers.

They numbered three--an ugly red-haired man, with coarse features and
squint eye, armed with a heavy-handled dog-whip; a tall, black-browed,
sad-faced woman; and a bear, big, brown, shaggy, and savage-looking.

For one long moment the children gazed at the group as if spellbound.
Then, with a ringing cry from Joan and a choking sob from Darby, they
instinctively clutched at each other's hands and fled in the direction
of the open ground beside the water, coming bang up against their father
just as he was sauntering slowly forward to join them.

"Daddy, daddy! the bear, the bear!" screamed Joan, hiding her small,
scared face against her father's arm, burrowing her fluffy head beneath
his coat like a frightened rabbit.

"Do you know what the people over there are staring at, father?" asked
Darby, in a low, strained voice, while his lips quivered so that he
could hardly articulate the words. "It's Joe, father, Thieving Joe--Joe
Harris and Moll! They've got Bruno with them--the bear, you
remember--and he's dancing and capering. But there's foam at his mouth,
and his eyes are glittering; for Joe's raging at him just the way he
used to do, and lashing him on his legs with the long whip. Oh, it's
dreadful!" and the boy shuddered, more at the recollection of past
terror than in fear of present danger. His father's strong fingers were
folded firmly round his little hand; so he held up his head and tried to
feel brave.

"Are you sure?" asked Major Dene, in a queer, tense tone--a tone which
Darby had never heard from his father in all his life before.

"Quite, quite sure," answered the boy decidedly. "Do you think I _could_
be mistaken?"

"And I's sure too," added Joan, lifting her head for the first time, and
looking timidly about her with wide, tearful blue eyes, as if she
expected to see Bruno waiting to play at hide-and-seek with her from
behind her father's back. "I'd like to speak to Mrs. Moll, 'cause she
heard me say my p'ayers and put me to bed. But I don't want never to see
that howid Joe or the dwedful big bear no more. Please pwomise you won't
let them come near us, daddy!" she begged in piteous accents.

"Take the children home at once--directly," said Major Dene to Perry,
who, breathless and flushed, at this point joined them, with Eric
kicking and struggling in her arms, quite cross, because he wanted a
longer look at the huge beast, which in his baby eyes appeared neither
more nor less than a great big pussy cat.

"Please, sir--" began Perry; but the expression of her master's face
checked the words, whatever she had intended to say, on the woman's
lips, and obediently she drew the little ones away. It was such a look
as his men might have seen in their commander's eyes as he doggedly led
them on to avenge some of the blood that has flowed so free and red to
enrich the arid plains of South Africa, at the cost, alas! of the
impoverishment of many a desolated heart. But none of his home folks had
ever seen those frank, smiling eyes snap and sparkle in the way they did
now, like broken steel; not one of them would have imagined that those
almost boyish features could set in such stern, grim lines as they fell
into while he waited for the much and long desired interview with the
rascal who had tried to rob him of his children.

Major Dene stood and watched until Perry and her charges had turned up a
side street that would take them straight to Westfield. Then grasping
his tough Malacca firmly in his supple fingers, he strode swiftly
forward to face the foe.

As he came close to the mob of people around the performers there arose
a hoarse shout, mingled with shrill screams and piercing cries. Then the
crowd surged, broke, scattered, and fled hither and thither in panic,
until, in an incredibly short time, there were only about half a dozen
who stood their ground to watch the closing scene in the final
exhibition given by the remaining members of the old Satellite Circus
Company.

It was, in truth, a gruesome spectacle! A huge beast--maddened to fury
by the sharp lashes of a stinging whip, blinded by the blows that had
fallen thick and fast about his head and ears, goaded by the memory of
years of cruelty and brutality--crushing to death in his hairy embrace
his tormentor, as together they rolled over and over in the thick white
dust of the village street, not a sound breaking the awesome silence but
the fierce, deep growling of the savage bear and the wild, hysterical
weeping of a terrified woman.

For one brief, breathless moment Major Dene held back, gazing in horror
at the unequal combat. Then, forgetting everything except that there on
the ground before him was a fellow-creature in dire need of help, he
sprang to the rescue. With one hand he tried to drag the brute off its
victim by the leather collar that encircled its neck, while with the
cane, which he still held in the other hand, he belaboured it smartly
about the snout and eyes. Fired by one man's courage, several others
came to his assistance, and among them they at length succeeded in
securing Bruno. But not before his thirst for revenge was satisfied; for
when Joe Harris was lifted and laid gently down upon the soft greensward
alongside the sea, one glance was sufficient to show the medical man,
who was quickly on the spot, that he was beyond the reach of human aid.

Yea, verily, "whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap."

       *       *       *       *       *

"Couldn't we help poor Mrs. Moll somehow, father?" suggested Darby next
morning, after their father had briefly told the children that Thieving
Joe was dead, and Bruno had been taken in charge by an enterprising
organ-grinder, who, shrewdly surmising the real state of feeling between
the brute and his late master which had led to such an awful tragedy,
promised to be answerable for his good behaviour in the future. "She
tried to help us as well as she knew how. Bambo thought so too."

"Let us take her back to Firgrove wif us, Aunt Catharine," coaxed Joan;
"she can do heaps and heaps of fings, I know."

"I'm afraid that would hardly do, little one," answered Aunt Catharine,
shaking her head. "But we'll think it over, and do the kindest thing we
can for the poor creature."

The following day Major Dene and his aunt bent their steps towards the
village, intending to seek out Moll, have a talk with her, and befriend
her in whatever way should seem wisest and best. But although they
sought high and low, peering inside canvas caves, walking boldly into
booths and marquees, haunting Aunt Sally alleys and shooting galleries,
inquiring of her probable whereabouts from any likely person they saw,
Mrs. Harris was not to be found. She must, they concluded, have caught a
glimpse of Darby and Joan, taken fright, and, fearful of consequences,
made off.

So there was an end of all kindly intentions towards poor Moll, who,
under other circumstances, might have been a better woman. And who can
say that after her husband's tragic death, aided possibly by the
altered conditions of her life, she would not henceforth endeavour to
live more honestly than she had done hitherto? Certainly Aunt Catharine
hoped she would, but Joan _believed_ she should. And for some subtle,
inexplicable reason Darby felt that Joan was right.

       *       *       *       *       *

If you journey some day through the heart of happy England, it may be
that you will come upon the village of Firdale, and not far away,
sheltering snugly in the hollow below Copsley Wood, the old-fashioned,
handsome homestead of Firgrove.

Darby and Joan are a big boy and girl now. Eric is in knickerbockers,
and trots quite proudly up the hill to Copsley Farm and down again, all
by his own self! There is a bright, clever governess at Firdale, and
Joan has quite left off dolls. Even Miss Carolina, the well-beloved, has
long since ceased to charm. Darby is at school--a real, proper boys'
school, as he says, where they have forms and fags, masters and mischief
in plenty.

But he and Joan still preserve their spirits pure, simple, single,
childlike, as they were on that bright October morning when, hand in
hand, they set out to seek the Happy Land.

And now, having accompanied them so far, let us wish them for the
remainder of their journey "_Bon voyage!_" and thus take leave of our
Two Little Travellers.