Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

[Illustration: "John, what are you talking of, all by yourself?"]



                THE HERMIT'S CAVE
                       or
                Theodore and Jack.

                       By
               ELEANORA H. STOOKE,

 Author of "Polly's Father," "A Little Town Mouse,"
              "Rose Cottage," etc.


            Illustrated by Richard Tod.


                    LONDON:
    GALL AND INGLIS, 25 PATERNOSTER SQUARE;
                AND EDINBURGH.



             PRINTED AND BOUND BY
               GALL AND INGLIS,
  NEWINGTON PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING WORKS,
                  EDINBURGH.



CONTENTS

CHAPTER

 I. THEODORE HEARS OF HIS STEPBROTHER

 II. THEODORE BECOMES ACQUAINTED WITH HIS STEPMOTHER AND HER LITTLE
     SON

 III. THEODORE'S GREAT-AUNTS

 IV. THE GREATEST MAN THAT EVER LIVED

 V. JACK'S LONELINESS; AND THEODORE'S LOVE FOR HIS STEPBROTHER

 VI. IN THE HAYFIELD

 VII. THEODORE AND HIS STEPMOTHER

 VIII. THEODORE'S DISOBEDIENCE, AND THE RESULT

 IX. LITTLE JACK AT DEATH'S DOOR

 X. GOOD NEWS

 XI. THE ARRIVAL AT BLACKBURN FARM

 XII. A MORNING'S EXPERIENCE

 XIII. THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH

 XIV. THEODORE HAS HIS OWN WAY

 XV. ON THE MOORS

 XVI. A TERRIBLE PLIGHT

 XVII. THEODORE'S DISAPPEARANCE

 XVIII. IN THE CARAVAN

 XIX. EXPLANATIONS AND FORGIVENESS

 XX. HOME AGAIN



List of Illustrations.

"John, what are you talking of, all by yourself?"

The picnic in the hayfield.

The farmer advised him to walk quietly.

They had sometimes to go on their hands and knees.



THE HERMIT'S CAVE.

CHAPTER I.

THEODORE HEARS OF HIS STEPBROTHER.

IT was a mild day towards the end of February; and though so early in
the year, spring flowers were in full bloom in the sheltered gardens
which surrounded Afton Hall.

Bright yellow crocuses, like regiments of plucky little soldiers
in amber uniform, with here and there clumps of mauve or white,
bordered the flower-beds; whilst daffodils reared their stately
golden heads in the gentle breeze, and snowdrops peeped modestly
from amongst their gorgeously-apparelled neighbours.

The patch of ground in front of the side of the house that faced the
west was particularly productive, being sheltered from the east wind;
and as old John Bawdon, the gardener, carefully turned over the brown
earth with his spade on this promising spring morning, he made a
mental picture of the garden as he hoped to see it in the summer.

"'Tis beautiful soil," he muttered; "just the right sort for them
young carnation plants. They'll make a fine show by-and-by!"

"John!" cried a young, imperious voice. "John! what are you talking
about, all to yourself?"

The gardener turned his brown, weather-beaten countenance towards the
speaker, a boy of about seven years old, whose handsome face was
ruddy and glowing with perfect health.

"I was saying how fine the carnations will look in the summer, please
God."

"Why do you say 'please God'?" asked the child, laughing. "You know,
John, you always do say it, and it does sound so funny."

"Well, Master Theodore," was the reply, in rather injured tones,
"I suppose it is as God pleases, anyway. I may dig, and plant, and
prune, and tend the garden with all my strength, but it's all no good
if God doesn't help. That's my experience, sir, and I've lived nigh
upon seventy years, and more than fifty of those years I've been
working in these here gardens. You don't find many of my sort
now-a-days," he added with conscious pride. "More than half a century
I've served your family, Master Theodore, as I've told you many
times. I mind when your grandfather, who's dead and gone, was a lad;
we were boys together. I mind when your father was born, and I mind
the night you came into the world. Yes, I recollect some changes."

The old man struck his spade into the ground, and leaning on the
handle of it, looked very tenderly at the boy. The child was clad
in a loose, sailor's suit, and he stood in a negligent,
care-for-nothing attitude, his hands in his trousers pockets.

"I know you're awfully old, John,—" he was beginning, when the old
man interrupted him.

"Not so old but that there's a deal of work left in me yet.
I'm strong and hearty still. But living in one family so many years,
naturally one sees changes—great changes. You know, Master Theodore,
how this bit of ground was your mother's favourite spot; she used to
call it her winter garden, because there were mostly flowers here
in dead winter. See that yellow jessamine against the wall, and that
clump o' anemones! They were here in your mother's time. And the blue
violets! How your mother did love violets, to be sure! I made a
beautiful wreath of them to put on her coffin, and it was buried
with her. It seemed fitting like that she should be covered
in flowers, she who was so bright and beautiful, when they threw the
cruel earth in upon her."

The old man drew his sleeve hastily across his eyes, then caught up
his spade, and set to work again with renewed vigour. Presently a
smile crossed his face, and he continued:—

"I called the earth cruel, but it ain't—it's kind! Don't it give us
the flowers? Don't it take the ugly little brown bulb, and keep it
warm, and nurse it, till the beautiful blossom is ready to come? Why,
Master Theodore, the earth won't be able to keep your mother on the
resurrection day, no more than it can keep the flowers from blooming
when the spring's here. No one knows better than a gardener what the
resurrection means, as I told the vicar."

John Bawdon stopped abruptly, seeing the child was perplexed. There
was a troubled look on the handsome little face; a rebellious gleam
in the clear, grey eyes; and the old man watched him furtively for a
few minutes.

"John," Theodore said presently, "do you know I am going to have a
new mother?"

"I have heard talk of something of the kind," was the cautious reply.

"You know," the child went on, lowering his voice, as though the
subject was one not to be discussed openly, "my father is married
again, and to-morrow they are coming home. Jane says he has forgotten
my mother, and she says he will care less than ever for me now."

"Jane is a meddling, tattling woman, and ought to know better than
to think such things, much less say 'em!" cried John Bawdon angrily.
"She don't know anything about it, Master Theodore; you mustn't take
notice of what she says."

"This strange woman cannot be my mother, can she, John?"

"No, sir, she cannot, that's certain. But if she's a kind, good lady,
she may make things all the happier for you. Your own dear mother's
body lies in the churchyard waiting for the resurrection day, and her
pure spirit is with her Lord. Oh, my mistress!"

A tear fell from the old man's eyes into the brown earth, and the boy
sighed.

"I'm a fool," John Bawdon muttered to himself; "but I can't bear
to think of a stranger in her place, though it was seven years ago
she died."

"Don't you let anyone put you against your father's wife," he
continued aloud. "I daresay she'll be a nice lady; and anyway,
I don't suppose she'll make much difference to you, Master Theodore."

"No," the child promptly agreed; "but I shan't call her 'mother,'"
and his lips took a firmer curve, and his eyes flashed.

John Bawdon made no reply, but every now and again he turned from his
work to look at the slim little figure wandering in and out among the
flower-beds. Theodore Barton, in spite of possessing every comfort
and luxury that money could procure, was a sadly neglected child.
His mother had died at his birth, and his father, filled with grief
at the loss he had sustained, had always been apparently indifferent
to his son. So far, seven years Theodore had lived at Afton Hall,
cared for by his nurse, Jane, subject only to the occasional
interference of two maiden aunts of his father, who lived at a pretty
villa not far distant. Now Mr. Barton had married again; to-morrow
he was to bring home his bride. It was to be a very quiet
home-coming: no rejoicings in the village; no grand doings at the
Hall.

"John! John!" cried Theodore presently, "look at this clump
of anemones!"

"Aye, aye, sir; all in bloom, ain't they?"

"Yes. They are lovely. I shall have some for the nursery," and he
proceeded to gather a great bunch. "How quickly they have come up
after the snow!"

"The snow protects the flowers, Master Theodore."

"Does it? How strange!"

"People talk of snow being cold, but it ain't; it's warm—warm as a
blanket. God sends it to protect the tender, delicate plants.
The Lord's a rare good gardener, He is—on a grand scale."

"Only think, what a funny idea!" said Theodore, with a merry laugh.

"All the world's the Lord's garden. He tends and cares for the trees,
and the grass, and everything. You mind the lilies o' the field,
Master Theodore, how He said they were finer than King Solomon in all
his glory. You look at them crocuses now. Ain't they glorious? Bright
as gold, and as smooth as satin. There's colour for you!"

But the child was not listening. He had darted off to meet his nurse,
who was coming to seek him. She was a tall, plain woman of forty,
neatly dressed in black. Jane Mugford was devoted to her little
master, having been with him ever since his birth; and before that
time she had been maid to the late Mrs. Barton.

Old John Bawdon nodded to her in friendly fashion; and she returned
his greeting in cordial tones.

"Good afternoon, John. How well the garden looks, to be sure.
I suppose you're tidying up a bit against the home-coming to-morrow?"

"Aye, aye, Jane. That's it."

"What changes time brings, doesn't it? It seems not so long ago—"

The woman paused abruptly with a glance at the child, but apparently,
not interested in the conversation, he was watching a worm that was
crawling across the pathway.

"Have you told him?" asked John, nodding his head towards the boy.

"Told him what?"

"That the new mistress has a little son of her own?"

"Not I, indeed. His father hasn't thought it worth while to mention
the subject to him, and why should I? They are coming home to-morrow,
as you know, and intend bringing her child with them. He has been
staying with his mother's friends. Oh! we shall have fine changes
at Afton Hall! But I'll see that Master Theodore's nose isn't put out
of joint! The precious lamb!"

"Now, Jane, don't you try to set Master Theodore against the new
mistress, there's a good soul. It may all turn out for the best;
maybe it's the Lord's doing."

"Set him against the new mistress!" cried Jane, indignantly. "As if
I'd dream of doing such a thing! Well, John Bawdon, you must have a
mean opinion of me, indeed!"

"No, I haven't, Jane. But I know how you love the little master, and
how you loved his mother; and I think maybe it seems hard to see
another in her place. Well, well, I can't say I haven't felt like
that too. You're afraid Master Theodore will be worse off than ever
now, I suppose?"

The woman nodded, and answered angrily with flashing eyes: "His
father don't care for him as he ought, though he is his heir, and
such a fine, handsome, little lad. And now, with this strange woman
and her child here, he'll care less!"

"No, no! The children will be friends, you'll see; they're near of an
age, I hear. It may be the best thing for Master Theodore, his father
marrying again."

"Well, John, you always try to look on the bright side of everything;
I'll say that much in your favour," Jane remarked, a pleasant smile
chasing the gloom from her face.

"It's the Christian way to look at things, at any rate," the old man
responded, gravely.

"So it is; you're right, so it is. Hope is a Christian virtue,
they say. Come, Master Theodore, come, my dear, it's near
dinner-time, and you must come in."

The child bounded to her side. She took him by the hand, and stood
looking down into his upturned face, as she asked—"Master Theodore,
how would you like to have a brother?"

"A brother!" echoed the child, in surprise.

"Yes. She—Mrs. Barton—your father's new wife, has a little boy about
your age."

"Will he come here?" Theodore asked quickly.

"Yes, certainly he will."

"But this is not his home!"

"No, my dear, of course it's not. It's your home, Master Theodore,
and no one shall interfere with you, I promise that. There,"
soothingly, "don't get cross. You're Jane's own dear, good boy,
her little master, her—"

"Master Theodore," interposed John anxiously, "don't you think
you would like a boy to play with? I know you would. Of course
Mrs. Barton will bring her little son here; and I expect she'll want
you to show him about the place, and be kind to him. He'll be
lonesome at first, and a bit shy—"

"Boys are not shy," Theodore said decisively.

"Some are; this one is sure to be among strangers."

"Do you think he will be bigger than me?" asked the child, drawing
his slender, graceful form to its full height.

"I don't know, sir."

"I wonder if he will want to fight," musingly.

"Fight!" cried Jane, in horrified accents. "I should think not,
indeed! What can you mean, Master Theodore?"

"Tom Blake says boys always fight to see which is the master. I shall
not touch the—the strange woman's little boy if he is smaller
than me—that would be cowardly. But if he is about my size,"
with flashing eyes and clenched teeth, "I shall thrash him."

Having delivered this speech, Theodore drew his hand away from Jane's
clasp, and ran off toward the house. His nurse followed hastily,
whilst old John Bawdon gazed after them with troubled eyes.



CHAPTER II.

THEODORE BECOMES ACQUAINTED WITH HIS STEPMOTHER AND HER LITTLE SON.

THE following afternoon the inmates of Afton Hall were in a great
state of excitement. The servants, headed by Mrs. Hussey,
the housekeeper, were ranged in a line in the entrance hall, awaiting
the arrival of the travellers.

Suddenly there was a slight commotion heard, and Jane darted
downstairs, her face pale with consternation.

"Has any one seen Master Theodore?" she gasped, looking eagerly
from one to another of the astonished faces. "I can't find him
anywhere. Half an hour ago he was in the nursery, and now he's gone!"

The servants exchanged meaning looks. No one had seen the child.
Jane rushed out, calling him loudly; but though she searched every
nook of the grounds, and every corner of the stables and outhouses,
she could discover no sign of him.

Meanwhile, in an old lumber-room at the very top of the house,
Theodore lay carefully concealed under a heap of disused bedding.
He felt warm and uncomfortable, for it was a decidedly mild day,
to be so covered up.

By straining his ears, he could faintly hear distant sounds. He was
very unhappy, very lonely, and his heart was filled with evil
feelings against the strange woman, as he mentally dubbed his
father's wife. He was sure she would treat him unkindly; he had heard
many stories of cruel, unjust stepmothers; and he had made up his
mind to hate this one and her child. Poor little boy! He had never
known any love except old John Bawdon's, and Jane's idolising,
ill-advised affection, which was calculated to spoil him. Jane was so
fond of her little master, so jealous for him, that she had all
unintentionally succeeded in sowing the seeds of hostility towards
his stepmother in his impressionable heart. She resented the idea
of another child in the house.

"Mrs. Barton's son shall not interfere with Master Theodore," she had
told Mrs. Hussey the night before in Theodore's bearing; "I shall see
to that. No doubt the master will make much of him, as it's her
child; but Master Theodore is the heir, and the Hall is his rightful
home, while that other will only be here on sufferance."

Theodore recalled the words as he lay listening, and though he did
not thoroughly understand their meaning, he felt somehow injured and
resentful. Suddenly he heard the sound of carriage wheels, then a
tumult of voices, and presently a long silence, broken after what
seemed an interminable time by approaching footsteps.

The child held his breath in suspense. The footsteps drew nearer, and
then the door opened, and he heard the voices of Jane and
Mrs. Hussey.

"He may be hiding here," Jane remarked, "but I don't think it's
likely. Master Theodore, are you anywhere about?"

"Perhaps he's under this heap," Mrs. Hussey replied, and hastily
turning over the bedding, she discovered Theodore.

"Oh, you naughty, naughty boy!" Jane cried, as, pouncing upon him,
she dragged him to his feet. "Your father's come, and his wife, and
the child. Master's that angry with you for not being there to greet
him! I hardly dared tell him we couldn't find you! You must come down
at once."

"What is the strange woman like?" Theodore demanded. "And how big
is the little boy?"

"Come and see for yourself, Master Theodore," Mrs. Hussey said
kindly. "They are having tea in the west parlour. You may as well get
 the meeting over at once."

Theodore suffered himself to be led downstairs unresistingly,
but outside the door his heart failed him, and he drew back.

"Oh, I cannot! I cannot!" he gasped, shrinking against his nurse.

Jane looked alarmed, fearing a scene. She hastily stooped down and
kissed him, then knocked at the door, and opening it, pushed him in.

"Master Theodore, sir," she announced, and quickly withdrew.

The west parlour was one of the pleasantest rooms in the house.
To-day a bright fire burned in the grate, whilst the air was sweet
with the scent of spring flowers, that had been gathered and arranged
in large, old-fashioned china bowls on the table and mantlepiece.
Old John Bawdon had plucked his choicest blooms in honour of his
master and his wife.

Theodore saw his father standing at the window, a tall, rather
severe-looking man. He turned at his son's entrance, and addressed
him somewhat sharply: "Where have you been, Theodore?"

"In the lumber-room, father."

The child was one who never quibbled or prevaricated, being innately
truthful.

"What were you doing there? I should not have thought there was much
attraction in a lumber-room."

Theodore raised his eyes to his father's face, and hesitated,
but only for a moment.

"I was hiding," he said slowly.

"I suppose you were shy," Mr. Barton remarked, his grave face
relaxing into a smile, as he shook hands with his son, and then
continued, "Now, I want to introduce you to my wife. Mary, this is
Theodore. Theodore, here is a lady who is very anxious to know you;
and if you are good—"

"Oh! I am sure he is good," interrupted a voice, somewhat hurriedly,
and a figure that had been seated in an easy chair by the fire rose
with a kind of nervous haste, and came forward. Theodore looked at
the stranger from head to foot, steadily. He saw a slight, graceful
figure, a pair of soft brown eyes, and a gentle face crowned with
dusky hair.

Mrs. Barton took the boy's limp hand, and smiled kindly at him.
He thought she meant to kiss him, as, indeed, she had intended,
but he drew hastily back, and met her friendly glance with one
of proud defiance.

"I hope we shall be friends," she said. "You will try to like me,
will you not, my dear?"

Theodore made no answer; he seemed perfectly tongue-tied. Mrs. Barton
cast an imploring look at her husband not to interfere; and with a
slightly impatient gesture he turned away, and looked out of the
window.

Meanwhile Theodore's eyes had wandered to the sofa, whereon lay a boy
of about his own age,—a boy with a mass of short golden curls, soft
brown eyes, and a thin, pale face. The brown eyes were watching
Theodore with great interest, and now they smiled at him, whilst a
slender hand was extended in greeting. Theodore gazed in surprise,
for the strange boy looked ill and delicate; so altogether different
from what he had pictured him.

"Come and speak to my little son," Mrs. Barton said.

"His name is Jack, and he has been looking forward to see you for a
long time."

"How do you do?" Jack asked politely. "Your name is Theodore,
isn't it? Won't you please come nearer, and shake hands with me?"

Theodore obeyed mechanically, wondering why Jack should recline
on the sofa. He looked with surprise at the small hand that clasped
his own brown fingers.

"Why does he lie there?" he asked abruptly, addressing his stepmother
for the first time. He was puzzled at the look of pain that crossed
her face at his simple question; but Jack made answer readily and
cheerfully:

"Didn't you know? Hasn't any one told you? Why, I'm lame!"

Theodore looked as he felt, inexpressibly shocked.

"It's my back," Jack went on to explain. "When I was a small boy
I fell downstairs, and I've never been well since."

He spoke as though he was a grown-up person, in a matter-of-fact
tone. "I shall never be strong like you as long as I live."

Theodore was greatly impressed. He fixed his serious grey eyes
on Jack's face, and thought deeply.

"Does your back hurt?" he enquired at length.

"Dreadfully sometimes; it makes me cross and naughty, and then I'm so
sorry afterwards. I tell the dear Lord Jesus about it, and oh! how I
wish He was on earth now! I would get mother to go to Him, and ask
Him to cure me. As it is, I'll have to wait till I die to get well."

"Well, one thing is certain," Theodore remarked with conviction
in his tones, "you can't fight."

"Fight!" Jack exclaimed, in accents of surprise, whilst his mother
looked somewhat startled, and Mr. Barton turned from the window and
surveyed his son in amazement.

"Yes, fight," Theodore continued. "I meant to fight you, you know.
Boys always fight; but I couldn't hit a fellow who's lame—it wouldn't
be fair play."

"Theodore!" interposed his father angrily. "You talk like a perfect
little savage!"

The child coloured hotly, and hung his head at the rebuke.

Mrs. Barton laid her hand kindly on his shoulder, as she said
somewhat wistfully, "I hope you and Jack will be friends, Theodore.
You are so strong, my dear, that I shall feel you are quite
a protector for him."

Theodore looked up brightly and smiled. "Yes," he answered, "I'm very
strong. I can run faster than much bigger boys, and I can climb
trees, and ride Jigger—that's my pony, you know—bare-backed. If you
like," with an air of condescension, "I will look after your little
boy for you. The village boys are very rough."

"Jack will hardly come much in contact with the village boys,
I should say," Mr. Barton interposed dryly.

"You see, Theodore," Jack explained, "I never go out except in my
chair. I can't walk."

"Can't walk!" Theodore exclaimed in horrified accents. "Can't walk!
oh, how dreadful!"

As Theodore spoke, Jack thought it was very dreadful too.

He turned his face aside, but not in time to hide the tears in his
eyes.

"You had better send Theodore away," Mr. Barton said to his wife.
"I am afraid he is upsetting Jack."

"I did not say anything to make him cry!" Theodore exclaimed
indignantly, turning his fearless eyes on his father's face.

"No, no," Mrs. Barton said soothingly. "But Jack is tired with the
journey, so I think I will put him to bed."

"Yes," said Jack, looking round, and smiling through his tears. "I am
tired. Do come and see me when I am in bed, Theodore." And Theodore
promised.

"Well, and what do you think of Mrs. Barton?" asked Jane, as Theodore
joined her in the nursery.

"I don't know," the child answered gravely.

He seated himself on the window-sill, and looked out dreamily.

In the distance he could see the tower of the parish church, and his
thoughts wandered to his dead mother, whose body lay buried in the
peaceful churchyard yonder.

"Jane, what was my mother like—my own mother?" he asked presently.

"Why, my dear, you know. You've got her likeness in your bedroom."

"Yes, but you tell me. Had she brown eyes, Jane?"

"Law, no, sir! Her eyes were as blue as the heavens, and her hair was
bright gold. You favour your father in looks, Master Theodore. Your
blessed mother was as fair as a lily, and with a colour in her cheeks
like a blush rose."

"I wish she had not died," the child said musingly.

"The Lord knows best, my dear."

"Does He? Did He send the strange woman, do you think, Jane?"

"Why—why, yes, I suppose so."

"And the little boy? Did you know he was lame? He cannot walk. Is it
not sad? Why did God let him fall downstairs and hurt himself, Jane?"

"I don't know, sir. But God knows, you may depend."

"It seems hard on Jack—his name is Jack. I am to go and see him when
he is in bed. He asked me."

There was a short silence, broken at length by Theodore.

"The house will seem different now they are come. And I think father
looks different already,—somehow I think he looks gladder."

Jane made no reply. Presently Theodore went to the door and listened.
He knew a room had been prepared, not far from his own, for his
stepbrother, and he wondered if he was yet in bed. He ventured out
into the passage, and crept cautiously along it. Before a half-closed
door he paused, and peeped in. Jack was in bed, his mother standing
by his side, whilst in a low, sweet voice she sang to him:

  "At even, ere the sun was set,
  The sick, O Lord, around Thee lay;
  Oh! in what diverse pains they met!
  Oh! with what joy they went away!"

She sang the hymn through to the last verse; and when it was finished
she looked around, and saw the little figure in the doorway,
watching.

"Come and say good night to Jack," she said, smiling, and thus
encouraged Theodore advanced to the bedside.

"I must not let you talk to-night, because Jack is over-tired, and I
want him to go to sleep quickly."

Jack raised himself in bed, and lifted his wan little face for
Theodore to kiss. Theodore complied somewhat awkwardly, and with a
muttered "good night" turned away. He watched Mrs. Barton as she
tenderly embraced her son; and listened to her whispered: "God bless
you, my darling." Then she joined him outside the door.

"Are you coming, Mary?" Theodore heard his father's voice call.

"Yes, in one minute," his wife responded.

She took Theodore's little brown hand and pressed it kindly.

"Good night, my dear," she whispered; then she stooped and
impulsively imprinted a kiss on his forehead: "God bless you, too,
Theodore."



CHAPTER III.

THEODORE'S GREAT-AUNTS.

NOT many hundred yards from the entrance to the grounds of Afton
Hall, lying slightly back from the high road, with a grass plot
surrounded by flower-beds in front, was a snug little house called
The Nest.

It was occupied by two maiden ladies named Barton, aunts to Mr.
Barton, and therefore great-aunts to Theodore. Miss Selina, the elder
sister, was a tall, gaunt woman, who prided herself on being
outspoken. She was sixty-two years of age, but looked younger; whilst
her sister, Miss Penelope, was ten years her junior.

If it had been Miss Selina's lot to have lived in some large, busy
parish, her services would have been invaluable, for she dearly loved
visiting the poor, attending meetings, and generally interesting
herself in parochial matters. But Miss Selina was not much liked in
her native place. She had a knack of rubbing people the wrong way, of
discovering their weaknesses, of being quick to notice their
shortcomings, and equally slow to see their good points. That the
poor were an ungrateful set, she was always saying, thriftless and
wasteful; it was quite useless rendering them assistance:
and yet—strange inconsistency—no applicant for help was ever allowed
to be sent unsatisfied away from The Nest.

Miss Penelope was not in the least like her sister. Once she had been
pretty, and she never for one instant forgot the fact; but it had
been the sort of beauty that rarely lasts beyond youth. Miss
Penelope's roses had faded; her blue eyes looked washed-out; and
there were decidedly ill-tempered lines around her small, button
mouth, for the younger Miss Barton did not possess the beauty of a
cheerful, happy spirit.

Little Theodore was not particularly fond of either of his aunts, but
he decidedly had a preference for Miss Selina. Miss Penelope was his
teacher. From half-past nine to twelve o'clock every morning Theodore
was at The Nest, given up to the tender mercies of Miss Penelope,
who made him spell out little stories about the bad boy who devoured
too much cake, and nearly died in consequence, and the good boy
who shared his cake with his schoolfellows, and was filled with
complacency at his own unselfishness.

Miss Penelope always impressed her pupil with the idea of how kind
it was on her part to give so much time to him, utterly regardless
of the fact that she was amply remunerated by the child's father.

On the morning after the return of Mr. and Mrs. Barton, Theodore was
late in arriving at The Nest. He entered the sitting room with
glowing cheeks, and sung his books noisily upon the table.
Miss Selina was seated sewing by the window, whilst her sister stood
bolt upright by the mantelpiece, her face puckered into its most
ill-tempered frown.

"Well, Theodore," the younger lady cried tartly, "you noisy boy?
How long do you imagine I have been kept waiting? Look at the clock!
It is past ten!"

"I am awfully sorry, Aunt Pen," Theodore responded deprecatingly;
"I am really. But I forgot the time. I was busy talking to Jack,
Mrs. Barton's little boy, you know. He's not half bad!"

Miss Selina dropped her sewing, and glanced curiously at the child's
bright, animated countenance.

"And what do you think of your stepmother?" she queried. "Come,
Theodore, I am curious to hear what she is like."

"She is very pretty, Aunt Selina, very pretty—much prettier than any
of the ladies about here."

Miss Penelope gave a little disdainful sniff, and glanced at her own
reflection in the pier-glass.

"I don't think I can quite explain how she looks," the child
continued doubtfully, "but she's like Jack; only her hair is quite
dark, and his is yellow like gold. Oh, Aunt Selina, is it not sad?
Jack cannot walk; he won't ever be able to walk. I mean to be kind
to him, poor fellow!"

"The newcomers have evidently got you on their side already,
Theodore," Miss Penelope remarked disagreeably; "and you were so
certain you would hate your new mother."

"She is not my mother!" the boy cried, his cheeks flushing hotly,
his handsome face clouding with anger. "But I never said I should
hate her. How could I tell what she would be like? I meant to fight
Jack; but I'm not a coward, and now I've seen him I couldn't hit
him."

"No, no," Miss Selina interposed hastily, with a warning look at her
sister. "Of course we knew there was a child, but we had not heard
he was a cripple."

"He will never be better in this world," Theodore declared solemnly.
"He will have to wait till he dies to get well."

"Dear me! that's very sad."

"He's about my age, Aunt Selina, and he's very clever. You can't
think what a lot he knows about all sorts of things. He says
his mother teaches him."

"And how is your father, my dear?"

"Oh, he's very well, thank you! I don't think I ever saw him
so bright. He gave me five shillings this morning to spend as I like;
and oh! I forgot to tell you, he sent his love to you both."

"I'm sure it's very kind of him. You must remember us to him,"
said Miss Selina, as she rose preparatory to leaving the room.
"We shall call shortly. Well, Theodore, you know I am nothing if not
outspoken, and I always speak my mind. My advice to you is, to keep
in your stepmother's good graces if you can."

Lessons commenced, and Theodore struggled through his multiplication
tables and worked his sums, interrupted occasionally by questions
from Miss Penelope relative to the newcomers at the Hall.

"I suppose she dresses well?" she queried, pausing in the midst
of correcting a sum that Theodore had been laboriously adding up.

"Who?" the boy asked, in surprise.

"Your stepmother."

"Oh! I don't know, Aunt Pen; I didn't notice."

"And she is dark, you say?"

"Her eyes are brown, and so is her hair."

"It will be a change for her—life at the Hall, I mean. I believe
she was poor?" she said interrogatively.

"I don't know, Aunt Pen."

"Yes, so I am informed; a half-pay officer's widow. Well, well,
some people have luck, to be sure. How does your father appear
to take to the child—Jack, I think you said he was called?"

"Oh, I think he likes him very well and Jack seems to be awfully fond
of father."

"Indeed! Do not let your nose be put out of joint, Theodore. Not that
it can make any real difference to you, of course: you are the heir,
any way; no one can alter that."

Theodore regarded his aunt gravely in puzzled silence. Her eyes fell
beneath his steady gaze, and she hastily bade him continue his work.
He was not sorry when the clock at last struck twelve, and Miss
Penelope dismissed him, with a caution to be in good time on the
morrow.

On his way home he met Tom Blake, the blacksmith's son, a tall,
over-grown boy of twelve.

"Why, how is it you are not at school?" Theodore inquired, pausing
to exchange a few words with Tom, on whom he looked with deep
admiration, as a being much older and wiser than himself, and
therefore to be regarded with due reverence.

Tom explained that he had taken a holiday to go birds'-nesting, but
that in spite of the mildness of the spring, the birds, as it turned
out, had known better than to build so early.

"I guess the old man will wollop me," Tom grinned, alluding to his
father; "but I don't care, not I."

Theodore looked at the daring youth with admiring eyes, considering
him very brave; then he poured into Tom's ears all he knew about
Jack.

Tom listened open-mouthed with astonishment, his eyes growing rounder
and rounder.

"Well!" he exclaimed at length, "well, I never! He might as well have
been a girl!"

"Oh, no!" cried Theodore indignantly; "he's not a bit girlish—not a
bit! If he could run about, I believe he would be as brave as you."

Tom laughed derisively, showing two rows of strong white teeth.

"That's good, that is! Ha! ha!" he laughed. "A cripple, and as brave
as me! Ha! ha!"

He went off, still convulsed with merriment; whilst Theodore pursued
his way, feeling annoyed and angry, he scarcely knew why. He found
old John Bawdon pottering about the garden, as usual, and to him
he spoke of Jack, and confided to him what Tom had said.

"Don't you take notice of anything that boy says, Master Theodore,"
the old man advised. "And as to being brave, there's many a plucky
chap as has never fought with his fists. Bodily strength isn't
everything; and I shouldn't wonder if Tom Blake, for all his
boasting, isn't a bit of a coward at heart. I 'aven't seen your
stepbrother yet, so I don't know what he's like, but his mother's
been out and 'ad a few words with me. Heard a lot of me from the
master, she said. Well, maybe that's very likely, me 'aving served
the family so long. She 'as a kind voice, and a kind face. I've a
notion we'll learn to bless the day she came here. I'll own I dreaded
her coming; I'm old, Master Theodore, and I don't like new faces;
but when I saw hers, I don't know what made me say it, but I said,
speaking the words that came first to my tongue, natural-like,
'God bless you, ma'am, you'll make the old place bright again!'"

"What did she say?" Theodore asked, curiously.

"Said she'd do her best; and she will, I know. See how cheerful
the master looks; not like the same man. I heard him whistling
just now like a boy, and it did me more good to hear him than if any
one 'ad given me a five pound note."

Theodore laughed, and went into the house, where he ascertained that
Mr. and Mrs. Barton had gone out together.

He bounded upstairs into the nursery in search of Jane, and there
found her with Jack, who was lying on an invalid's chair near the
window.

"Oh, Theodore, how long you have been!" Jack cried, his beautiful
dark eyes lighting up with a look of eager welcome. "Not that I have
been dull," he added hastily, with a courteous, deprecating glance
at his companion, "for Jane has been reading to me, and we have had
a nice talk—haven't we, Jane?"

"Yes, sir."

"I've been telling her how I hurt my back. She used to know a little
boy who was lame, and after a time he got quite well. But I can't,
you know. Lots of doctors have been to see me, and one was a very
great doctor indeed, from a hospital in London, where there are lots
and lots of children. He came and punched me about a good deal;
he didn't mean to hurt, you know; he had to do it. He was sorry;
and I told him when I grew up I meant to be a great doctor, too; and
he smiled, and looked sorrier and sorrier, because you see he thought
I should not live very long. I should like to be a doctor, shouldn't
you, Theodore?—a doctor like St. Luke."

"Was St. Luke a doctor?" Theodore asked, with interest in his tones.

"Yes. Don't you remember, Paul called him the 'beloved physician'?"

"I did not know," Theodore answered humbly.

"Mother told me." Then changing the conversation, "Does your
governess give you difficult lessons to learn, Theo?"

"No, not very. She's my aunt, you know—Aunt Penelope."

"What's she like?"

"Jane says she's like a washed-out doll," Theodore answered, with a
laugh at Jane's discomfited face.

"Oh, Master Theo, you shouldn't repeat what I say like that!"
she cried in shocked tones.

"Well, Jane, you know quite well you did say so. She's not a bit
like Aunt Selina, who is very tall, and thin, and dark. They're
coming to call soon, and then you'll see them, most likely."

"Oh, but I shan't be downstairs, Theodore."

"Then they'll come up here to see you, never fear: They asked me lots
of questions about you; and they'll be sure to want to see you out of
curiosity," said Theodore candidly.

"I don't think I want to see them much," Jack remarked dubiously.

"Well, I don't think you'll like them much!" Theodore answered with
a laugh.

"You shouldn't say that, Master Theodore," Jane interposed. "Miss
Selina's a kind, generous lady; every one in the parish knows that.
And Miss Penelope, for all she's a trifle cross-grained sometimes,
is very clever, I'm told."

"I saw Tom Blake, Jane, as I came home. He's been stopping away
from school this morning to go birds'-nesting."

"How often am I to tell you, sir, not to have anything to say to that
naughty boy? He's one of the worst boys in the village."

"I'm sure he's not," was the quick, indignant retort. "He's a very
nice boy; and he knows about everything!"

"Yes; everything he ought not to know, I expect. His father does some
poaching, I'm told, and no doubt he is teaching his son to follow
in his footsteps. If I hear of your going with him, Master Theodore,
I shall tell Mr. Barton."

"No, you won't!" Theodore retorted, with a wilful look.

"Oh! won't I, indeed! You'll see."

Thereupon followed a long wrangle, to which little Jack listened
in astonishment. At length, after Theodore had worked himself into a
violent fit of passion, Jane gave in, as she usually did on such
occasions, and there was peace once more.



CHAPTER IV.

THE GREATEST MAN THAT EVER LIVED.

THREE months had passed since the arrival of the new mistress and her
little son at Afton Hall. The housekeeper had left, and had not been
replaced. Mrs. Barton preferring to hold the reins of government
in her own hands.

In the nursery Jane still reigned supreme, but there was now
a younger woman to assist her; for, much to the surprise of all
the household, Jane had volunteered to take Jack under her charge,
and the plan answered admirably.

The invalid child, with his sunny disposition, and winning ways,
had won her heart at once; though she still looked with jealous,
suspicious eyes on his mother.

"You see, Master Theodore," she explained one day, "there's no need
to keep the poor little fellow at a distance, seeing it's not likely
he will be here long anyway. He's that fond of you, too! Why, when
you're out his eyes are always looking towards the door at the
slightest sound, thinking you're coming. 'Jane,' he said to me
the other day, 'isn't it grand to be strong like Theo!' Poor little
chap! It's hard times for him!"

By this time the stepbrothers were fast friends. As the weather
became warmer, Jack went out every day, and was drawn about the
garden in his wheeled invalid's chair. He made acquaintance with John
Bawdon, and the old man would often chat to the child. On one of
these occasions, when the two were left alone together for a few
minutes, Jack asked the age of his companion, and, on being told,
remarked thoughtfully:

"How strange to be so old! Do you know I am only seven, and I shall
not live long; perhaps I shall die before you, John."

"Maybe, sir; God knows. But I'm an old chap, that's certain, and it
can't be long before I shall see the King in His beauty."

"'Thine eyes shall see the King in His beauty, they shall behold
the land that is very far off,'" quoted the child, the soft, musical
tones of his voice going straight to his companion's heart.

"Aye, aye, sir, that's it. It used to be my mother's favourite verse,
and I've always minded it."

"Your mother? I suppose she's dead?" Jack said dubiously.

"She died so many years agone that I've lost count o' the time,
Master Jack. She lies in the churchyard yonder."

"Theodore's mother is buried there, too—he told me. I think it is
very pleasant to be alive—that is, sometimes. Of course it's not nice
if you're in pain."

The old man shook his head, and glanced pityingly at the thin, little
face, and the beautiful brown eyes, that looked far too big and
bright.

"Pain is very hard to bear, Master Jack, but you face it bravely,
sir, I hear."

"Oh, no! I'm afraid not, but I try, and—"

"I sometimes think," John interrupted, "that, knowing our weakness,
maybe the Lord won't judge us so much by what we've done, as by what
we've tried to do. If we do our best, that's what God wants; He won't
blame us for what we've left undone, if we try our hardest. My mother
used to say the greatest praise Christ ever gave was to that poor
woman who anointed His feet with ointment. You remember His disciples
grumbled; I expect they felt impatient with her, and wanted her gone;
but Jesus said, 'She hath done what she could.'"

"Highest praise!" said a quiet voice, and turning hastily the old man
saw Mrs. Barton. She bent over her little son, and rearranged his
pillows, whilst John went back to his work.

"Is it nearly twelve o'clock, mother?" Jack enquired.

"It is past twelve, my darling. Are you thinking it is time for
Theodore to be here? He is rather late to-day. Perhaps he could not
say his lessons, and Miss Penelope is keeping him on that account."

"Oh, no, I don't think it's that. He did his work as usual last
night. Oh, mother, have you seen Theo imitate Miss Penelope?"

"Imitate Miss Penelope? No, indeed!"

"Oh, it's so funny. He screws up his mouth small, and makes his eyes
very round, and talks in a cross, snappy sort of voice!"

"I don't think it's kind to do that, Jack."

"Theo can't bear Miss Penelope. He says boys always hate their
governesses."

"But that's not true. Why should Theo hate Miss Penelope, because she
does her best to teach him?"

"Oh, it's not that, mother! You know Miss Penelope is a cross sort
of woman."

Mrs. Barton was silent. She did her best to like her husband's aunts,
and succeeded as far as the elder sister was concerned. But at the
same time she well knew that in their different ways they put
Theodore against her: Miss Penelope intentionally, she was afraid,
and Miss Selina from sheer lack of tact. For, sorrowfully,
Mrs. Barton was obliged to acknowledge that she knew but little more
of Theodore, after living three months under the same roof with him,
than she had the first day of her arrival. The boy was perfectly
respectful and polite, but he never talked freely to his stepmother.

Mr. Barton had not been in the habit of seeing much of his little
son, but even he could not help noticing that Theodore purposely kept
in the background.

The stepbrothers were true friends. Jack loved Theodore dearly, and
admired him for possessing the qualities he lacked himself; whilst
Theodore in return was growing to love Jack best of all the world,
with an affection that had sprung from purest pity in the first
instance, but was daily becoming stronger and deeper.

There were days when Jack lay moaning in bed, racked and tortured
with pain. On such occasions Theodore's footstep was noiseless as it
passed the sufferer's door; his usually loud, clear voice hushed to a
whisper. Then would follow a time of utter weakness for poor Jack,
when, free from pain, he could bear to hear his mother read or sing
to him, and would listen with a patient, placid smile, whilst
Theodore recounted the tale of some wonderful adventure that had
befallen him, for Theodore was always having adventures. He would be
thrown from his pony, and fall unhurt; once whilst fishing, he had
stumbled into the river, and had been fished out himself by a
gamekeeper, none the worse for his ducking; and on another occasion,
when endeavouring to rob a wood-pigeon's nest of its eggs, he had
slipped, and returned home with a scarred and bleeding face, much to
the alarm of Jack and the anger of Jane.

"I did not get the eggs after all," Theodore had lamented as Jane had
bathed his injured countenance.

"Oh, Theo, I'm so glad!" Jack had exclaimed. "It's so cruel to rob
birds' nests, I think."

Theodore had made no answer, putting it down as one of Jack's
peculiarities that he should consider birds'-nesting wrong.

Little Jack had many peculiarities, in his stepbrother's opinion.
Strong, healthy Theodore found it very difficult to understand the
intense shrinking from giving pain that possessed the weaker boy's
tender heart. During his whole life Theodore had had no serious
illness, had endured no actual suffering, therefore it was impossible
he could understand the giant "Pain" as Jack did. Theodore's temper
was hot and hasty, quick to be roused, and as quick to forgive.
He would often throw himself into a great rage when Jane opposed some
wish of his, and later, kiss her with tender affection and beg
forgiveness.

Young as he was, Jack had learned to control his temper: a hasty word
rarely crossed his lips; and if when he was ill he was troublesome
and fretful, his repentance when he grew better, was quite touching
to witness.

"Oh, Theodore," he cried on one occasion, "I do wish I could be
patient, I do! I don't believe I'll ever learn to be Christ's
disciple really. You know, He said, 'Whosoever doth not bear his
cross, and come after Me, cannot be My disciple.' Do you think
I shall ever, ever learn to bear my cross?"

"I don't know what you mean, Jack. I know you're quite brave.
I should not have thought any one could be so plucky. I'm sure if I
was half as bad as you are sometimes, I should simply howl," Theodore
answered with candour.

"Oh no, you wouldn't! I don't believe you'd even cry ever so softly,"
and the soft brown eyes met the bright grey ones with a look full of
loving admiration. "Still, I do try to be patient, you know I try.
Mother says I must keep on trying, and then my cross will get lighter
and lighter, till I shan't feel it but just the weeniest bit, and at
last it will carry me to God."

"I don't understand, Jack."

"Oh, I mean my back, you know—that's my cross! When I die—"

"Oh, you mustn't talk of dying, Jack! I don't like it, I don't
indeed! Promise you won't."

"All right, I won't, if you'd rather I didn't." And with his usual
thoughtfulness for another's pleasure, Jack changed the conversation.

But Theodore could not help thinking a good deal of what Jack had
said, though he tried with all his might not to do so. In a few days,
however, other matters came to occupy his mind, and drove the thought
of Jack's dying completely away for the time.

One morning, in the midst of a geography Theodore astonished his aunt
by asking, without apparently any reference to anything that had gone
before, "Aunt Pen, who was the greatest man that ever lived, should
you think?"

"I—I'm sure I do not know, Theodore. What queer questions you ask,
to be sure! The greatest man that ever lived? Well, really that is a
wide question."

"A wide question, Aunt Pen—what's that?"

"A question that could be answered in many ways. The Duke
of Wellington was a great man—one of the greatest men of his day.
General Gordon was a great man, too; and oh! dear me, there have been
hundreds of great men. Each age has its shining lights, its—"

"But who should you say was the greatest man, Aunt Pen?" Theodore
persisted.

"Oh, I'm sure I do not know! It's a matter of opinion. Go on
with your work."

Theodore obeyed, but he was far from satisfied. When twelve o'clock
came, and he was free, he found his stepmother in the garden chatting
to Miss Selina.

"Well, Theodore, lessons over?" queried Mrs. Barton. "Then we will go
home together. I think I must say goodbye now, Miss Selina."

"I am very glad Jack is so much better," Miss Selina said cordially.
"Come and see me again very soon. I like an informal call such as you
make, my dear."

Mrs. Barton and her husband's elder aunt were on excellent terms
by this time, in spite of the latter's preconceived prejudice against
her nephew's wife.

As Theodore walked along by his stepmother's side, it occurred to him
to ask the same question of her that he had put to Miss Penelope
a short while since.

"I want to ask you something," he began, looking up into her face
with earnest, searching eyes.

"What is it, my dear?"

"Who was the greatest man that ever lived, should you think?"

She paused, and gazed at him in silence for a moment before she
answered with serious directness, "The Lord Jesus Christ."

"Ah! that's what Jack said."

"Jack was right. Yes, Theodore, Jesus was the greatest man that ever
lived."

"Was He brave?"

"Very brave. He suffered a death of shame for the sake of a wicked
world. He gave His life for sinners. 'God commandeth His love toward
us, in that while we were yet sinners Christ died for us.' Oh, He was
the greatest man that ever lived! Brave, true, faithful, gentle,
loving, the founder of a mighty kingdom, the—"

"A mighty kingdom!" Theodore echoed in surprise.

"Yes, a kingdom that has been growing and gaining in power
for nineteen hundred years. I mean the Kingdom of God, that Christ
preached and founded."

"Jack thinks a good deal of Jesus," the boy remarked musingly.
"I think he loves Him better, yes, better than you."

"I hope—I believe he does!"

"Why, I wonder?"

"I could not be to Jack what his Saviour is. It is Jesus who helps
him to be patient under suffering, who teaches him to bear his pain
with resignation. And, Theodore, when my darling boy is called away
from me, I shall not be able to go with him, but there is One—
the great Physician—who will be with him when he passes through the
valley of the shadow of death."

Mrs. Barton paused, and Theodore impulsively caught her hand.

"Why do you talk so?" he cried passionately. "How can you? how can
you? I cannot bear to think of Jack's dying. He is better, isn't he?"

"Yes, certainly he is better."

"Then why—why—"

The child's voice was choked with piteous sobs that he strove
manfully to subdue.

"Dear Theodore," his stepmother said soothingly, "do not cry.
God knows what is best, He does indeed! You must try to feel with me
that Jack is in the hands of One whose love and care will never fail.
We must trust in Him at all times. Yes, yes," as Theodore shook his
head, "I know it is hard. You must try to believe that God knows
best; you will, will you not?"

But Theodore made no answer, and they walked the remainder of the way
to the Hall in silence.



CHAPTER V.

JACK'S LONELINESS; AND THEODORE'S LOVE FOR HIS STEPBROTHER.

BRIGHTLY the June sunshine shone into the nursery at Afton Hall,
filling the room with its genial warmth; softly the balmy air wafted
through the open windows, bearing with it the scent of roses and
new-mown hay.

Jane sat sewing, every now and then glancing at Jack, who lay, with
the sunbeams turning his fair locks into brightest gold, and lighting
up his pale little face.

"Oh, the beautiful sunshine!" he cried. "How I love it! Listen, Jane;
what is it I hear?"

"Only the voices of the children in the hayfields, Master Jack."

"I wish, oh! how I wish I was with them. I suppose Theo is there;
he said he should ride home on the top of a waggon of hay; do you
think he will?"

"Very likely. The men will look after him. There's not one among the
lot that could bear to see him hurt in any way. He will be their
master one day, you know."

"Will he?"

"Yes. Master Theodore's his father's heir. You can look out of the
window, and as far as you can see, and further, is Mr. Barton's own
property, and will be his son's. Heaven bless the dear boy! There
never was another so handsome, so good!"

"I thought you said he was very naughty this morning, Jane,"
Jack remarked in a puzzled tone.

"Well, maybe he was at the time I spoke, but he's never naughty long.
He has his mother's sweet, forgiving nature."

"Oh, Jane," Jack cried, coaxingly, "do tell me about Theo's mother!
What was she like?"

"Like a beautiful angel, Master Jack. Her hair was as fine as spun
silk, and as golden as your own. Her eyes were large and bright,
in colour a deep blue; and her face, with its kind, gentle look,
always gained her friends."

"Was she very good, Jane?"

"That she was. When she died the whole parish mourned; and as for
Mr. Barton, there was no comforting him. He never saw Master Theodore
for some weeks, until one day I walked into the room where he was,
with the dear little lamb in my arms. Will you please to look at your
son, sir,' I said, all of a tremble, and he went as white as a sheet.
'Take him away!' he cried, but I wouldn't. Then I told him as how my
mistress, some days before she died, said if the baby was a boy
she would like him to be called Theodore, and if a girl, Theodora—
because, Master Jack, those names mean 'The gift of God.' Well, the
master listened, and agreed that the child should be baptised
Theodore, as his wife had wished; but he only glanced once at the
baby, and turned away. As time went on he got accustomed to seeing
the dear lamb about, and I believe now he's very proud of him, as
indeed he ought to be. Mr. Barton has a real kind heart, and he gives
Master Theodore all he could possibly wish."

"He is very kind," Jack agreed. "When he carries me downstairs
he doesn't hurt me at all scarcely."

Jane nodded. She had been talking, hoping to interest her little
companion, and keep his thoughts from the happy party in the
hayfield. Apparently she had succeeded, for Jack looked thoughtful,
but by no means sorrowful.

"Jane, I am so glad you have told me what Theodore's name means,"
he remarked at length. "I must tell mother. Theodore—the gift of God—
I think it's splendid!"

Meanwhile Theodore himself was romping in the hayfield, totally
forgetful of his stepbrother at home. The men worked late, and it was
quite dusk before the merry party broke up.

Theodore hastened home, and, rushing into the house, tore upstairs
as quickly as he could, and into the nursery. But Jane was not there;
and Jack, tired out with the heat of the day, had been put to bed.
Theodore repaired to his stepbrother's room, and peeped cautiously
in.

"Are you asleep, Jack?"

No answer. The room was nearly dark, and the blinds drawn down.
Theodore tip-toed up to the bed, and leaned over the little figure
that lay thereon. Jack was not asleep; on the contrary, he was very
wide awake, but his pillow was wet with tears, and his breath came
in sobbing gasps.

"Oh, I say, Jack, what's the matter?" Theodore inquired, in great
concern. "Shall I call your mother?"

"No, you can't; mother's gone to a dinner-party," with a fresh burst
of tears.

"Then I'll ring for Jane."

"No, don't—don't, Theo. Wait a minute."

Theodore obeyed, and stood patiently by till Jack was able to still
his sobs. Then he took a very grimy-looking handkerchief from the
depths of his trousers pocket, and wiped his stepbrother's eyes.

"Oh, I say, don't cry any more I Are you ill, Jack?"

"No! oh, no!"

"It's your poor back, isn't it, old fellow?"

When Theodore was in a tender humour, he always called Jack
"old fellow."

"No, no; my back's all right. I am very silly. Mother's away, and—and
you were away."

"Yes. I've been in the hayfield nearly all day. It was so jolly,
Jack!"

"I know, I know," with a little gasping sob; "and I—I've been so—so
lonely, and—and miserable."

"Didn't they look after you properly? Where was Jane?"

"Oh, Jane was very kind! Only, I missed you, Theo, and I thought
of you and the other boys playing—"

"But you couldn't have played, you know, and—"

"I know, I know; that was it."

A sudden, comprehensive light broke across Theodore's mind, and he
felt a sharp pang of regret that his stepbrother was not like other
boys. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he took one of the little
invalid's hands in his strong, brown fingers, and there was a silence
for a while, broken at length by Jack.

"How good you are to me, Theo. You always understand."

"No, I don't, old fellow."

"Oh, I think you do! Don't think me very selfish, Theo. Do you think
it is wrong to wish to be like you—strong and well?"

"It is hard for you, Jack. I wish—I wish; I know!" with a quick,
excited change of manner.

"What is it, Theo?"

"It's a secret. No, I can't tell you. No, I've only just thought
of it."

Theodore's face was radiant with a bright idea; but he checked
his excitement.

"Don't be lonely any more, Jack. I'm here, and I'll stay with you
as long as you like. Do you feel at all sleepy?"

"I think I do."

"Then try to go asleep."

"Kiss me, Theo."

Theodore complied readily. Jack put his arms around Theodore's neck,
and pressed his hot, feverish lips to the other's cool, firm cheek.

"Won't you sing to me, like mother does, before you go?" Jack
whispered.

"I don't think I can."

"Oh, yes! Sing 'At even, ere the sun was set;—you know that."

And very sweetly, in his clear treble, Theodore sang the hymn
correctly through to the end.

"The last verse again, please, Theo," Jack murmured, sleepily.

"All right, old fellow:—

     "Thy touch has still its ancient power;
      No word from Thee can fruitless fall:
      Hear, in this solemn evening hour,
      And in Thy mercy heal us all."

Attracted by the sound of the sweet boyish voice, Jane had come
upstairs. She now entered the room, and Jack having fallen asleep,
she bore Theodore off to supper and bed. But Theodore did not quickly
close his eyes and drift into the land of dreams, as he usually did.
He lay very quiet and still for more than an hour, his brain working
busily; then, knowing he was now safe from a visit from Jane,
he slipped out of bed, and swiftly dressed himself. Next he went
to the window, and after noiselessly pulling up the blind, cautiously
opened it.

The night air was sweet with summer scents, and blew freshly against
Theodore's face, cooling his flushed, sunburnt cheeks. He leaned his
elbows on the sill, and lifted his eyes to the sky, where the moon
was shining brightly. Presently he turned his gaze to the garden,
where the tall madonna lilies reared their stately heads; he could
smell their delicious fragrance, and he fancied they looked like
ghosts in the moonlight.

As his eyes wandered to the grey church tower in the distance,
a sense of loneliness crept over him, such as he had never
experienced before; and he thought of the grave wherein his mother
lay, and wished sorrowfully that she had not died. If she had lived,
she would have loved him, he knew, even as Mrs. Barton loved her
little son. Why had God taken her away from him? Was it really
because she had been too good to live, as Jane had often told him,
unconsciously magnifying the good qualities of her dead mistress?
He did not think that a sufficient reason, for other people were
good, and often lived to be quite old.

"I'm sure John Bawdon is good, every one says so," Theodore mused.
"Father says he's honest and faithful, and one of the best men he
knows, and yet God has let him live all these years. No, that can't
be it. I wish I knew."

Another hour passed, and still the boy waited by the open window.
At length, however, he heard the sound of carriage wheels, and
following out a plan he had made, he hastened downstairs, and into
the room where he knew his stepmother and father would presently
come.

The lamp was lowered, so that, on entering, Mr. and Mrs. Barton did
not notice the child. They stood on the rug by the fireplace, talking
and laughing about the events of the evening. She had thrown off her
wraps, and looked very beautiful in her soft white gown, trimmed with
filmy lace. As Theodore watched her face, flushed and animated
at present, he did not wonder that Jack loved his mother so dearly,
or that his father was so much happier now-a-days. The boy crossed
the room towards them, and each turned on him with an exclamation
of surprise.

"You did not see me when you came in," he explained. "I have been
waiting for you."

"Is anything wrong?" Mrs. Barton asked anxiously, her pretty colour
fading somewhat. "Jack is not ill, is he?"

"Oh, no! He is fast asleep."

She drew a breath of relief, and then, turning to her husband,
remarked, "You must think me unnecessarily anxious about Jack."

"It is quite natural you should be," he answered, with a smile.
Then turning to Theodore, he laid his hand on his shoulder as he
enquired kindly, "Why are you not in bed and asleep, my son?"

"I did go to bed, but when all was quiet I got up again, and looked
out of the window till I heard the carriage coming; then I came
downstairs. Jane thinks I'm in bed now, and oh, wouldn't she scold
if she knew!"

Theodore raised his eyes to his father's face, and meeting a look
of amusement, laughed merrily.

"And may I ask why you thus run the risk of Jane's displeasure?"
Mr. Barton asked.

"I wanted to ask you a favour, father."

"Is it to be a secret between you and me, Theodore, or may she,"
indicating his wife, "stay and hear?"

The boy looked at his stepmother. Her brown eyes were watching him
earnestly, and a little sadly. They reminded him of Jack's, and he
answered quickly, "Oh, she may hear if she likes!"

At this point husband and wife laughed, and Theodore joined heartily.

"Now, then, what is it? Have you tired of Jigger, and want me to get
you a bigger pony?"

"No, father; I couldn't part with Jigger."

"Then what is it, Theodore?"

"I have been in the hayfields nearly all day, with the vicarage
children," the boy began, "and Jack has been at home alone. I did not
think he might be lonely. I did not think about him at all. But he
was lonely; he told me so. I want to give a party in the lower meadow
to-morrow; and, father, don't you think, as it is so close, we might
wheel Jack in his chair as far as the gate, and then you could carry
him very carefully, and put him on a comfortable seat in the hay.
Oh, I'll make him such a cosy nest!"

"Of course I could, my boy, and I will."

"Oh, father, thank you! Jack will be so glad. But you mustn't tell
him. He must go out in his chair, just as usual, and we will wheel
him carefully down the road till we come to the lower meadow; and
then you must come along, as if by chance, you know, and carry him
the rest of the way—won't you?"

"I will, my son."

Mr. Barton looked down at the eager, animated face, so like his own
in features, so unlike in expression, and a glow of fatherly love
filled his heart for his child. Never, he thought, had he seen
Theodore look so handsome, so noble. The little fellow's eyes shone
brightly at the thought of the pleasure in store for his stepbrother;
for his affection for Jack, which had commenced out of protecting
pity, was fast developing into deep, unselfish love.

"A thousand thousand thanks, father! It must be a secret, mind.
You will not tell?" Theodore asked, turning to Mrs. Barton.

She shook her head, smiling; but, to the boy's astonishment, there
were tears in her eyes, and she seemed incapable of speech. Satisfied
and happy, Theodore said "Good night," and went upstairs, taking care
to step softly, that Jane should not hear him.

He was in bed, and almost asleep, when his stepmother passed his door
on her way to her son's room. He knew she always visited Jack the
last thing before going to bed herself, and presently he heard her
returning. To his surprise, instead of passing his room, as usual,
she entered. He kept his eyes closed, feigning sleep, and wondering
what she wanted. He knew she stood by his bedside, looking down upon
him. Then he heard her sigh, and then a pair of soft lips kissed him
gently, tenderly; and opening his eyes, he saw by the moonlight
a beautiful face looking at him—oh, surely as his own mother, had she
lived, might have looked at her son! That look filled him with
strange, joyful wonderment that was almost pain. He hastily buried
his head under the bedclothes, and, mistaking the meaning of the
action, Mrs. Barton turned sadly and sorrowfully away.



CHAPTER VI.

IN THE HAYFIELD.

MERRIMENT in the hayfield was at its height. A group of youngsters,
including Theodore and the vicarage children—two girls of ten and
twelve, and a boy of six—were engaged in a thorough romping game,
whilst Jack, enthroned on a beautiful couch of softest hay, watched
them with contented, happy eyes. Mr. Barton was at a little distance
with the haymakers, as was the vicar—a big middle-aged man, with a
kindly face, merry blue eyes, and a deep resounding voice.

Mrs. Barton and Jane had spread a table-cloth on the ground,
fastening it securely down with stones and presently the tea was
laid, and the children stopped their game, to seat themselves in a
ring close to Jack, so that he might join in their eager, joyous
conversation. The little tongues grew silent as the business of tea
progressed, but their appetites somewhat satisfied, the chatter began
again. Then Mr. Barton and the vicar joined the group, and demanded
their share of the good things. Theodore, who considered himself
the master of the ceremonies, waited upon every one assiduously,
taking especial care of his stepbrother.

[Illustration: The picnic in the hayfield.]

"Are you sure you are enjoying yourself, Jack?" he would ask; and
getting an answer in the affirmative, would be satisfied for about
five minutes, when he would put the same question again, and receive
the same reply.

Once he approached Mrs. Barton, and in low tones asked her: "Do you
think Jack is enjoying himself?"

"I am sure he is, Theodore; he never had such a treat in his life
before. It makes me very happy to see him looking so well and
bright."

"Yes. Everything is going off splendidly, isn't it? I was afraid
Aunt Selina and Aunt Penelope might turn up, but I don't think they
will now."

"What makes you think of them?"

"Oh! Aunt Penelope said this morning she would rather like to see the
haymakers at work. I was careful not to tell her we were going to
have tea here this afternoon!"

The foregoing conversation had taken place shortly before tea,
therefore Mrs. Barton was not surprised when the meal was in
full swing to see her husband's aunts entering the field. Theodore
was filled with consternation at the sight of them, which he made
no attempt to hide, for he exclaimed hastily:

"What a nuisance! They will spoil our fun!"

"Theodore!" his father said sternly, in accents of rebuke; but the
boy scowled rebelliously.

"Do not let us disturb you, pray!" Miss Selina said, after she and
her sister had shaken hands with the elder ones of the party, and
nodded to the children. "We have been to the Hall, and learning where
you all were, thought we would look in on you for a few minutes."

"And now you must have some tea," Mrs. Barton said. "Children, cannot
you make two comfortable seats?"

So two fresh mounds of hay were arranged, and presently the
unexpected visitors were seated and sipping their tea complacently.
Miss Selina wore the old brown silk gown that every one knew;
but Miss Penelope's toilette was very juvenile—white muslin,
blue bows, and a sailor hat.

"Your wife is not here?" Miss Selina remarked, addressing the vicar.

"No," he replied; "the baby is poorly, and she did not care to leave
home."

"Nothing serious, I hope?"

"Oh, dear, no! Teething, I believe."

"Well, I'll call to-morrow, and cheer your wife up a bit;
it's wearisome work nursing a sick child. By the way, I wanted
to speak to you—"

And Miss Selina and the vicar drifted into a discussion upon parish
matters; whilst Miss Penelope turned her attention to Jack.

"Why, Jack, this is a surprise! How comes it you are here?"

The child laughed happily, and turned his eyes upon his stepbrother.

"It was Theodore who thought of it," he answered. "Wasn't it splendid
of him? And father carried me so gently that I was not a bit hurt."

Miss Penelope knitted her brows, and looked from Mr. Barton
to Theodore. She had not known before that Jack was in the habit
of addressing Mr. Barton as "father," and she was surprised that
Theodore, who was at her side, and apparently listening to the
conversation, did not seem to resent, or even to notice it.

"Theo arranged everything so that it should be a great surprise
for me," Jack continued confidentially, in his serious, old-fashioned
way. "A hayfield is a lovely place, I think. Oh, what is it?"

Miss Penelope had given a little scream, and Theodore, who had been
watching her with a mischievous look on his face, openly smiled.

"There is something crawling on my neck!" she cried. "Oh, Theodore,
see what it is, and take it off! there's a dear boy!"

"All right; keep still, Aunt Pen. Yes, I see it. Keep still, or it
will crawl down the neck of your dress, and then—"

He paused expressively, whilst Miss Penelope appealed to him again.

"Oh, be quick, dear Theodore!"

But Theodore did not hurry. He very carefully and slowly removed
something from the back of Miss Penelope's neck, and stood looking
at her laughingly.

"What was it?" she asked nervously.

"A beetle, a beautiful green beetle," and opening his hand,
he disclosed the insect, whereupon Miss Penelope gave a little
horrified shriek, and the children could not help a roar
of amusement.

"How foolish to make a fuss about such a trifle!" Miss Selina cried.
"Really, Penelope, it is almost childish."

Miss Penelope looked resentful at this speech, and she sat in silence
for a while.

The children having finished tea, Mrs. Barton sent them off to play
again; and the vicar and Mr. Barton returned to the haymakers, whilst
Jane packed the cups and plates into baskets, and returned with them
to the Hall.

"Now I call this very pleasant," Miss Selina remarked. "What a pretty
sight, to be sure. Why, it was years and years ago since I had tea
in a hayfield. I suppose this is your first experience of anything
of the sort, little man?" she said, glancing smilingly at Jack.

"Yes, indeed. Isn't it jolly?"

"Very. And so it was Theodore's idea, I hear?"

"He thought of it for Jack's sake," Mrs. Barton explained. "Was it
not good of him? So many boys of his age would not have cared for
 another's pleasure."

"He is a good boy," Miss Selina agreed. "And so you two are great
 friends?" turning to Jack again.

"Yes," he answered promptly. "Oh, yes, great friends!"

"Just like brothers, in fact," Miss Penelope remarked in a tone that
made her sister glance at her sharply.

"It is a great gratification to us that it is so," Mrs. Barton said
quietly. "I think each is happy in the companionship of the other."

"And Jack calls your husband 'father'?" Miss Penelope queried
sweetly. "Now, how nice that is!"

Mrs. Barton coloured faintly, for she anticipated what was coming.

"And does Theodore call you 'mother'? If so, how charming of him!"

"No, he does not," was the prompt answer. "No one has ever asked him
to do so. His father would not suggest it; neither would I. Some day,
I believe, Theodore will call me 'mother' of his own free will."

"To be sure, to be sure," Miss Selina agreed briskly. "The boy's not
one to be driven an inch, but I believe he can be led by kindness and
love. Now, you know, I am nothing if not outspoken," using her pet
phrase, "and I always speak my mind. I see well enough that Theodore
stands aloof from you, and you are fearful lest your will should
clash with his, but I really do not think you need be. If I were you,
I would exert my authority over him a little more. I would not let
him be so much with that Tom Blake."

"Tom Blake—who is he?" Mrs. Barton asked anxiously.

"He is the blacksmith's little boy," Jack hastened to explain.
"I have never seen him, but Theodore has told me all about him."

"I do not think there is much to his credit to tell," Miss Selina
continued. "He is one of the worst boys I know, always staying away
from school on one excuse or another, always telling falsehoods and
swearing, and a regular bully."

"Oh, dear!" Mrs. Barton cried in dismayed accents; "and you say
Theodore goes about with him? I don't think his father knows it."

"Probably not; but Jane must, and she ought to have put a stop to it
ages ago. I expect, though, Theodore wheedled around her to let him
have his own way."

Jack looked thoroughly uncomfortable, for he knew Theodore was often
in Tom Blake's company, and he also knew that Jane was much
distressed at the fact, though she had not sufficient control
over the wayward boy to prevent it.

"Do you know anything about this matter, Jack?" Mrs. Barton enquired,
noticing her little son's uneasy countenance.

"Not much, mother," he replied, rather evasively. "Of course I know
Theo goes out with Tom Blake sometimes—often," correcting himself
truthfully.

"And does Jane allow it?"

"No—that is, she does not like it. She wanted Theo to promise not
to have anything more to do with Tom, but he would not promise."

"Just as I thought!" Miss Selina exclaimed. "Jane gives way to him
in everything. Now," turning to Mrs. Barton, who looked much
disturbed, "you see how necessary it is that some one holding more
authority than a servant should interfere."

"I do indeed see it."

Mrs. Barton sighed as she turned the matter over in her mind, and
came to the conclusion that it was her place to speak to Theodore
about his questionable friend.

Presently Miss Selina and Miss Penelope took their departure, and
then little Jack turned a distressed face to his mother.

"Oh, mother!" he cried, "what shall I do? I ought not to have told
you anything about Theo's going with Tom Blake. Theo will be so
angry."

"Nonsense, my dear. It was Miss Selina who told me, in the first
place."

"Of course Theo couldn't promise not to have anything more to do with
Tom Blake, if he meant to all the time."

"No, certainly not. But remember, Jack, it is Theodore's duty to obey
Jane whilst he is under her charge."

"I know. But Theo wouldn't tell a lie, mother; and you see he doesn't
mean to give up Tom Blake—he says he is such a nice boy."

"And do you think he is, Jack?"

Jack hung his head guiltily, mindful of many things that Theodore
had repeated to him as clever speeches of Tom's.

Mrs. Barton did not press the question, and presently the party
in the hayfield broke up.

"This has been the happiest day of my life," the little invalid
confided to his stepbrother later on, "and I've been thanking God
for it."

"It has been jolly," Theodore replied. "But what a queer chap
you are, to thank God for it; you're as funny as old John Bawdon—
that's just his way of talking."

Jack was by no means offended at this remark; he was accustomed now
to Theodore's flippant manner of speaking. Instead, he continued:

"Mother says we should never forget to thank God. She says we're
always ready to ask Him for things, and often forget to thank Him.
But I haven't forgotten to-day. I feel so grateful, and as if I love
Him so dearly. There's one thing I never forget to thank Him for;
do you know what that is, Theo?"

"Not I," with a laugh.

"For giving me you, Theo."

And Theodore made no answer, only looked in wonderment at his
stepbrother's bright, loving face, and decided that he was very
peculiar—a decision he came to scores of times in a week.

So the happiest day of Jack's life came to a close; and when the
little fellow went tired to bed, he fell asleep quickly, and dreamt
a wonderful dream that he never forgot: for in it he thought he
no longer lay watching the other children, but ran about and played
with them.

It was the happiest dream he ever dreamt, a fit ending to the
happiest day.



CHAPTER VII.

THEODORE AND HIS STEPMOTHER.

ONE afternoon, nearly a week later, upon entering the house by a side
door, Mrs. Barton came upon Theodore and Jane both talking loudly
and excitedly.

"I shall tell master, and see what he'll say!" she overheard
Jane exclaim, and then came Theodore's quick retort, in enraged
accents—

"You're a nasty sneak, and I'll do as I like!"

"What is it?" Mrs. Barton demanded, as she came forward, her usually
gentle voice severe and peremptory.

Theodore turned a flushed, angry face towards her, whilst Jane
changed colour, and hesitated to explain.

"What is it?" she asked again. "Theodore, how dare you speak to Jane
in that way?"

"She is a sneak," the child declared passionately; "a sneak!
a sneak!"

Mrs. Barton laid a firm hand on the boy's shoulder; and Jane burst
into a storm of tears as she sobbed out:

"I'm sure I've done nothing to make Master Theodore so angry.
I always try to do my duty!"

"I am sure you do," Mrs. Barton assured her. "Now, tell me what is
the meaning of this scene?"

Whereupon Jane explained that Theodore had intended going out
fishing with Tom Blake, and she had tried to prevent him.
Mrs. Barton listened in silence. The case was just as she had
imagined; and she now saw the time had come for her to put a check
upon her stepson.

"I am very sorry Master Theodore has behaved so rudely to you, Jane;
and he will be ashamed himself when he comes to think the matter
over. You were quite right in not allowing him to go with Tom Blake—
he is not at all a suitable companion for Master Theodore. You may go
now. Theodore, you come with me."

Jane was glad to be dismissed, but went upstairs feeling uneasy, and
somewhat frightened, as she thought of the interview that was to take
place between Theodore and his stepmother.

Meanwhile Mrs. Barton led Theodore into the library, and, closing the
door, released her hold of him. For some minutes there was silence,
during which time Theodore's temper was rising, and Mrs. Barton was
praying for help to use such words as would appeal to the boy's sense
of right and duty.

"Sit down, Theodore," she said, gently and kindly. "I want to have
a talk to you about this Tom Blake; but first of all I must tell you
that I cannot allow you to call Jane names. It is unmanly to speak
thus to a woman. Perhaps no one ever pointed out this to you—"

"She is a sneak!" the boy burst out angrily.

"A sneak means a low, mean person—Jane is not that."

"She was going to tell my father—something."

"Because you would not listen to her, or obey her. Theodore, such
conduct is not honourable. Jane is responsible for you, and if you
will not do as she tells you she must appeal to someone with greater
authority. Now, she is quite right in not allowing you to go out
with this Tom Blake; if your father was consulted on the matter
he would most distinctly forbid it!"

"Why?" Theodore demanded, his eyes flashing ominously.

"Because the boy is not a fitting companion for you. I do not wish
to get you into trouble, Theodore, and therefore I shall be quite
satisfied to take your word that you will avoid Tom Blake all you
possibly can. Will you promise this?"

"No, I will not! Someone has been putting you against Tom!"

"Someone has been telling me the truth about him. He is a bad boy;
he swears, and tells lies. Is it not so?"

But Theodore was furiously angry. This was the first time
his stepmother had ventured to interfere with his doings. His fierce
grey eyes met hers, and he read in her steady gaze a look he did not
like, a look that told him she meant him to obey her.

"What has it to do with you?" he demanded rudely.

"A great deal. It hurts me to think my husband's son should care for
low company. Understand me, if this Tom Blake was a good boy I should
not object in the least to your going about with him; it is simply
because he is not good that I do object. Dear Theodore, you must see
it is right. Do promise me you will do as I wish!"

"No! no! What has it to do with you? Why do you interfere with me?
No one ever did until you came! You are not my mother, and I won't
stand it! I hate you! I do! Yes, I hate you!"

"You do not know what you are saying, Theodore," Mrs. Barton said
quietly, though her face became very pale. "You cannot mean what you
say!"

"Yes, I do! I do! I hate you! I will go with Tom Blake whenever
I like. He is waiting for me now, and I shall go, I tell you!"

Theodore was moving towards the door, but to his surprise
his stepmother interposed between it and him.

"No, you will not go," she said, and the boy, even in his passion
was quick to note the ring of power in her tones. "I shall prevent
you. Go to your own room at once, and remain there till I give you
permission to leave it."

Theodore gave a shriek of defiance as he listened, and then losing
complete control over himself, he stamped round the room, raving
at the top of his voice, venting on his stepmother all the pent-up
evil thoughts he had harboured against her during the last few
months.

She uttered no word, only watched him sorrowfully, marvelling that
so young a child could hate so bitterly; then she went up to him,
her quiet face showing little of the pain he had caused her.

"Are you going to obey me, Theodore?" she asked. "Go to your own room
at once."

"I will not!"

"I must insist upon it."

"I will not! I—"

The words died on the boy's lips as the door opened and his father
entered. Mr. Barton surveyed his son in silence, a dark flush
of anger crossing his face; whilst Theodore's spirit quailed
guiltily, though he was still determined to brazen the matter out.

Mrs. Barton in a few words gave her husband to understand that
Theodore persisted in an act of disobedience, and she was insisting
that he should go to his own room, and remain there for a punishment.

"Well, Theodore," Mr. Barton said sternly, "do as you are told,
and go!"

"I will not do as she tells me!"

"What?"

The boy repeated the words, but scarcely had he done so than he felt
himself in a strong grasp, and was dragged out of the room and
upstairs before he had time to understand what was happening.
In another minute he found himself seated on the floor in his own
bedroom, and heard the door closed and locked from the outside.

He was stupefied with amazement. Never had his father interfered
with him before, and he immediately saw that he had made a mistake
in defying his stepmother. But he was not sorry yet, though he wept
and sobbed himself perfectly sick. Nobody came to condole with him,
and he felt he was hardly used, especially as tea-time passed, and
no tea was brought to him.

"It is all her fault," he told himself, blaming his stepmother.
"Of course, father would take her part."

He wondered why Jane did not come to see him, or at any rate to speak
to him, if the key was taken out of the door; and regretted he had
called her a sneak.

As the evening dragged on, his angry passions cooled down, and a
feeling of self-pity took their place. Over the mantlepiece hung an
enlarged photograph of his mother, and as his eyes rested on it,
he almost fancied the sweet face smiled on him; and he wondered
if she knew how badly he wanted her, and how lonely he felt.
And then, in his imagination, the smile changed to a look of
reproachful sorrow, and for the first time his heart smote him
for his conduct that day.

Would no one ever come to him? The long summer evening was closing
in at last, and still he was left alone.

"Theodore! Theodore!"

It was his stepmother's voice outside the door, and he answered
quickly, "Yes, yes; oh, let me out!"

"I cannot; your father has the key. May I go to him and say you are
sorry?" she asked anxiously.

Theodore did not answer, and she pleaded again: "You are sorry,
are you not? Do let me fetch your father. Shall I?"

"Oh, yes, yes!"

He listened to her retreating footsteps, and it seemed ages before
the key at length turned in the lock, and his father entered the
room.

It was a forlorn-looking little figure, with pale cheeks and swollen
eyelids, that stood shrinking before Mr. Barton's stern gaze.

"I am sorry," the boy murmured. "Won't you please forgive me,
father?"

"It is not my forgiveness you want, Theodore. It was my wife
you openly defied and insulted. When I first brought her home,
she was ready to love you dearly, and would have done her best
to fill the place of your dead mother. She has always been kind and
considerate to you, and how have you repaid her? This afternoon I was
ashamed of my son."

Theodore hung his head, and blushed with shame.

"I have heard the cause of the disturbance from Jane; and, once
for all, let me tell you to avoid Tom Blake. Is that plain? Do you
understand, and do you mean to obey?"

"Yes, father," Theodore answered, in a very small voice.

"If there is ever a repetition of the scene I partly witnessed
to-day, I shall send you to a boarding-school at once. I should have
dealt with you much more severely, if my wife had not begged me to be
lenient with you. You had better go and try to make your peace
with her. She is in the drawing-room."

Theodore turned away, and walked slowly downstairs, his proud spirit
quite humbled for the time.

"I am sorry I behaved so badly," he said, going straight up to
his stepmother, who was seated in a low chair by the window. As she
turned and looked at him, he saw the traces of recent tears on her
face. "I am sorry," he repeated. "Will you please forgive me?"

"Yes, Theodore."

His heart was touched by the gentle sadness of her voice, and he went
on quickly:

"It was not true what I said, and it was very rude of me. I don't
hate you, really."

Mrs. Barton made no reply, and Theodore did not know that she
restrained a strong impulse to take him in her arms and kiss him.
He was conscious of a touch of reserve in her manner that he had
never felt before, and it made him uneasy.

"Did you—did you tell my father what I said?" he asked anxiously.

"No; there was no need to pain him."

Theodore winced at her reply, and stood hesitating, whilst Mrs.
Barton turned her head away, and looked out of the window.

"I am sorry," he said again.

"If your sorrow is real, my dear, you will try to curb your temper.
You must not continue to allow it to conquer you, or you will always
be a slave to it."

"I can't help my temper."

"Oh, yes, you can! Pray to God to help you; and when you feel the
evil passion getting the better of you, fight it down valiantly.
Say to yourself, I can do all things through Christ, which
strengtheneth me.'"

"I will try; indeed I will."

"And ask God to forgive you. Oh, Theodore! you have made me very
unhappy; think of the sorrow you must have caused Jesus."

"I don't think He can care for me much."

"Why not?"

"I'm too naughty."

"Dear Theodore, we are all naughty; but Jesus loves us, and wants us
to try and do better for His sake. Will you try?"

Theodore nodded, his eyes swimming with tears.

"You are sure you forgive me?" he asked earnestly.

"Quite sure. Now, good night. Run away and have your supper; you must
be very hungry. Jack is anxiously waiting for you, and so
is Jane—poor Jane! Good night, my dear."

A few moments Mr. Barton joined his wife, and leaning over the back
of her chair, kissed her softly on the forehead.

"Do you think I shall ever win his love?" she asked wistfully.
"Sometimes I almost despair."

"You must not do that," he answered fondly. "Some day Theodore will
love you as dearly as your own boy does. You will see that I shall
prove a true prophet."



CHAPTER VIII.

THEODORE'S DISOBEDIENCE, AND THE RESULT.

FOR some days after Theodore's exhibition of disobedience and
passion, he was very subdued and quiet, treating Jane with great
consideration, and spending most of his spare time in Jack's company.

Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Barton referred to Tom Blake, and Theodore felt
he was quite forgiven for his naughtiness. But the boy could not
overcome the slight reserve that his stepmother seemed to have
wrapped around her.

Hitherto he had been content to keep out of her way as much
as possible; now he often sought her presence, with the idea
of wiping out from her mind the bitter words he had hurled at her
in his ungovernable rage. But he found he could not. When he and Jack
sat listening to a story from her lips,—for she often drew on her
imagination for their amusement,—he would catch her eye, and know
that she remembered.

As time went on, he grew to daily respect her more and more. He saw
how she brightened the once dull house; he noticed how his father
was happy when she was near; and he began to understand the tender
affection with which Jack regarded her. He had not troubled as to
what she had thought of him; he had not cared whether she loved him
or not; but now slowly there was creeping into his heart a desire
to obliterate any bad impression he might have made upon her.

Mrs. Barton's quiet influence for good was, felt at The Nest too.
Miss Selina had no faults to find with the management of the new
mistress at the Hall; Miss Penelope soon ceased to begrudge her the
personal charms she had at first refused to admit, and even went
so far as to acknowledge her "nice-looking."

Much to Theodore's astonishment, he found Jane upholding
Mrs. Barton's authority, and quoting her opinions on different
matters; the truth being that Jane was beginning to find her young
master rather beyond her powers of control, and was really glad
to have someone to whom she could go for assistance, or advice.
Theodore managed to keep out of Tom Blake's way for many weeks,
but one morning during the August holidays he met him close to the
entrance to the Hall grounds. Theodore nodded, not meaning to stop,
but Tom paused, and then, of course, Theodore had to do the same.

"Good morning, Master Theodore!"

"Good morning, Tom!"

"You didn't keep your promise about the fishing," was Tom's next
remark, with a sly wink.

"No. I was very sorry. I would have let you know if I could. I didn't
mean to break my promise!"

Tom looked curiously at Theodore's distressed countenance.

"I suppose they stopped you," he said, with a grin. "I guess
Mrs. Barton thought you too much of a baby to go out without a nurse,
eh?"

"I don't think I care for fishing much," Theodore remarked, with a
would-be careless air, and ignoring the sneer conveyed in the other's
remark.

Tom laughed in a manner which had an irritating effect upon his
listener, and seemed to be vastly amused.

"You don't like fishing much? Oh, indeed! I s'pose you like being
made a molly-coddle of like your stepbrother, eh?"

"Jack is not a molly-coddle!" Theodore flashed out indignantly,
now thoroughly angry.

"He's well enough, I daresay. Now, look 'ere, see what I've got!"

Tom drew from his pocket a packet of cigarettes, and carefully
selecting one, proceeded to light it, whilst the younger boy watched
him with somewhat reluctant admiration.

"'Ave one?" Tom asked insinuatingly. "Bought 'em with my own money."

"No, no, thank you."

"Afraid you'll be sick, eh?"

"No. That's not the reason."

"Afraid your stepmother 'll whack you if she finds it out?"

"No, indeed!" Theodore responded, with a laugh at the idea.

"Well, then," the elder boy said persuasively, "try one, it can't
'arm you. Let's go and sit down in the shade somewhere."

Theodore rather reluctantly followed Tom into the lower meadow, where
now stood a large hay-rick, in the shadow of which the boys seated
themselves. Now, no one had ever told Theodore not to smoke; but all
the same he had an idea that neither his father nor his stepmother
would like him to do so. Yet when he watched Tom puffing away, and
apparently thoroughly enjoying his cigarette, he told himself there
really could be no possible harm in his trying one, just to see what
it was like. So he allowed himself to be persuaded; and, after much
coughing, because the smoke would go down his throat, and up the back
of his nose, he succeeded in getting through one cigarette.

Then Tom suddenly remembered that his father would be wanting him,
and made his way home, chuckling to himself as he went, whilst
Theodore slowly rose to his feet, and turned towards the Hall.

But how queer he felt,—so sick, and everything seemed to be spinning
round. He never quite remembered how he crawled home, but when
at length he staggered into the nursery, Jane uttered an exclamation
of dismay, and Jack gave a shrill scream of fright at the sight
of his ghastly face.

"Oh, Master Theodore, my darling; what is it?" Jane cried, as she
rang the bell violently, and caught the boy as he staggered, and
would have fallen.

"I am very ill, Jane," he moaned; "very ill!"

In a few minutes nearly everyone in the house had rushed to the
nursery, the servants with frightened faces, Mrs. Barton pale and
trembling, and her husband no less alarmed. Jane held the boy in her
arms, calling him by every endearing name she could think of, until
Mr. Barton took him from her, and laid him on a sofa.

Theodore looked, as he said, very ill; but as his father leaned over
him a sudden suspicion made him ask:

"What have you been doing, Theodore?"

"Doing?" Theodore repeated faintly, looking round on the assembled
faces. "Doing? Nothing—only—smoking."

There was a moment's dead silence. Then Theodore saw the sympathy
on the servants' faces give way to ill-suppressed amusement; and his
father remarked, in decidedly relieved accents:

"So you've been smoking, have you? And you feel very ill? I can quite
believe it. Don't be frightened, you are not so bad as you fancy, and
you'll be better soon. Cheer up, Jack! There's nothing to be alarmed
about. I think, Theodore, bed is the best place for you."

So saying, Mr. Barton turned away, and went downstairs.

The faithful Jane, much relieved as to the cause of her darling's
illness, and, assisted by Mrs. Barton, soon had Theodore tucked up
in bed, where he lay very sick, and suffering badly in his head
for some hours.

At last he fell asleep, so that he never heard the stir and commotion
that was going on in the house, for his sleep was deep and heavy; and
when he awoke he thought it must be tea-time, he was so very hungry.

Then he remembered all that had taken place, the look of mingled
relief and anger on his father's face when he had confessed he had
been smoking, his stepmother's evident amazement, and the amused
countenances of the servants. His cheeks burned with shame; and he
determined to get up at once, and tell his father all about it.

Very slowly, for he felt weak and rather lightheaded, he arose and
dressed, and made his way to the nursery. Jack was there alone,
so intently and eagerly looking out of the window, that he never
noticed his stepbrother till he reached his side.

"Well, Jack," Theodore remarked, rather shamefacedly.

"Oh, Theo, darling, are you better?"

But Theodore did not answer. He stood gazing out of the window
with wide-open, horror-stricken eyes; for there, in the lower meadow,
was a volume of smoke ascending from the new hay-rick.

"It is on fire," Jack explained. "Isn't it a pity? Nearly every one
is there, trying to put the fire out."

"Oh, dear! how did it happen?"

"I don't know. But are you feeling better, Theodore?"

"Oh, yes, yes! I'm all right. Where's Jane?"

"She's downstairs, getting tea ready; all the servants are gone
to the lower meadow. Father is there, and I think mother is—"

"Mother is here;" and turning, the boys saw Mrs. Barton standing
behind them.

"You must be ready for your tea, Theodore, for you had no dinner,"
she said. "Are you better?"

"Yes, thank you; but my head aches."

"Ah, yes. I hope you will not be tempted to smoke again; it certainly
made you very bad," she said, with a smile that caused Theodore
to blush. Then she added more seriously, "You must have known it was
wrong to smoke, and whoever gave you tobacco was much to blame."

"It was a cigarette," murmured Theodore; "but I will never touch
another!"

Mrs. Barton thought it wisest to let the subject drop for the time,
meaning to talk seriously to her little stepson when Jack was not
present. The boys watched the burning hay-rick for some minutes
in silence, but at last Theodore exclaimed excitedly, "Oh, I must go
and see the fire-engine at work!"

"No, my dear, you cannot," Mrs. Barton answered. "Your father said
that on no account were you to leave the house."

"I suppose he is very angry," Theodore sighed.

"Never mind," whispered Jack. "At least—I mean you won't smoke again,
will you?"

"Never!" was the fervent response, in accents of conviction. "I do
wonder, Jack, how the rick caught on fire; it was all right this—"

Theodore paused abruptly, ashamed to acknowledge he had rested in the
shade of the hay-rick to smoke that unlucky cigarette.

Meanwhile, the fire-engine from the neighbouring town was playing
on the flames; but though there was plenty of water, the efforts
of the willing helpers were of little avail, for there was a stiff
breeze blowing, which fanned the fire, so that when night fell there
was very little hay that was not thoroughly spoiled.

"'Tis a bad job," said old John Bawdon, as he walked back to the Hall
by his master's side.

"It is indeed, John, especially as the rick was not insured. I cannot
imagine how it caught fire."

The old man looked troubled, and presently burst out:

"You know, sir, I love him dearly! I wouldn't willingly get him into
trouble; but I think I ought to speak."

"What do you mean? What do you know?"

"Blake, the blacksmith, has been thrashing his son for smoking by the
side of the rick. It seems he was passing along the road, and looking
in over the hedge, saw him this very morning."

"The young rascal! You may depend he threw a lighted match
unwittingly into some loose hay."

"Yes, sir," uneasily. "But he wasn't alone; Master Theodore was with
him."

"Theodore!"

Very black indeed was the frown on Mr. Barton's brow; and seeing it,
the old man, with whom Theodore was a prime favourite, was much
distressed and agitated.

"Oh, be gentle with him!" he pleaded. "He is very young! I am sure
he meant no harm."

"I had told him not to have anything to do with Tom Blake, and yet
it seems he wilfully disobeyed me."

"Oh, sir, have patience with him! he's not used to control. Jane,
she means well, but she has allowed him to have his own way so long."

"Too long."

Even as he spoke, the father's conscience told him he should have
taught his son the lesson of obedience earlier himself.

"I am very glad you have told me this, John," he said. "Have no fear
that I will be harsh with the boy. He is wilful and headstrong;
I suppose I was the same at his age."

"That you were, sir!"

Mr. Barton laughed, and the old man hastily apologised.

"I beg your pardon, sir, I'm sure; but, you know, I remember when you
were just such a little chap as Master Theodore; and sometimes I'm
most afraid I forget my manners. But I've the family's welfare
at heart, and—"

"You're a faithful soul, John," his master interposed feelingly;
"I know that." And having arrived at the Hall, they parted company.

Mr. Barton went straight upstairs to the nursery, where he found
his wife and the two boys. It was almost dark, and his footsteps made
no sound on the thick carpet, so that for a few minutes he stood
in the background, unseen and unheard.

Mrs. Barton sat on a low chair by Jack's sofa. The little invalid's
golden head rested on his mother's shoulder; whilst on a stool at her
feet sat Theodore, looking up at her with interested eyes.

"And David killed the giant," Mrs. Barton was saying in her dear,
sweet voice, "killed him with a sling and a stone."

"A sort of catapult, I suppose?" Theodore queried. "What a first-rate
shot David must have been!"

"Yes. You see it is not always the strongest that wins. David was
only a lad; but he trusted in God, and God was with him—"

She broke off suddenly as her husband came forward. Theodore turned
crimson, and regarded his father with startled eyes.

"I am sorry to disturb you, Mary," Mr. Barton said gently, "but I
want a few words with Theodore before he goes to bed. Theodore, come
downstairs into the library with me."



CHAPTER IX.

LITTLE JACK AT DEATH'S DOOR.

LATE that night, when all the household had presumably gone to rest,
a little figure, clad in a scarlet dressing-gown, stole softly into
Jack's bedroom, and, carefully closing the door, crept up to the bed.

"Is that you, Theodore?" Jack asked anxiously. "I thought you would
come. Oh! I have been so very unhappy! Dear Theo, what is the matter?
What did father say to you?"

For Theodore was weeping bitterly. He climbed on the edge of the bed,
and laying his head on the pillow, sobbed as though his heart would
break. Much distressed, Jack put his arm lovingly around his
stepbrother's neck, and wept in sympathy. But Theodore's tears
did not last long; he presently sat up, and explained the whole story
of his troubles and misdeeds to his attentive listener.

"You set fire to the hay-rick!" Jack cried in dismay, when he at last
understood Theodore's somewhat rambling statement.

"Yes. Of course I did not mean to—I suppose Tom or I must have
dropped a lighted match in some loose hay without knowing it.
Oh, dear, isn't it dreadful?"

"Was father very angry, Theo?"

"I don't know—not angry exactly, but sorry, and—and disappointed.
He said he thought he could have trusted me," Theodore explained,
with a choking sob. "I was very naughty, very disobedient, and I
can't think what made me be so wicked. I was never so sorry about
anything in my life before. Father said I ought not to have gone
into the lower meadow with Tom; I ought just to have spoken to him,
and gone home."

"Yes, yes!"

"Do you hate me, Jack?"

"No, no, Theo! I love you dearly—dearly!"

"I don't deserve you should. I expect she hates me," Theodore said
with a sigh.

"She? Who?"

"Your mother."

"Oh, no! I'm sure she doesn't!"

"I don't think I shall ever be good, Jack; and I do want to be."

"Jesus will help you, Theo. You know that, don't you? I'll tell you
a verse out of the Bible that mother told me to remember, when I
wanted to do something wrong, shall I?"

"Yes, do. What is it?"

"'Thou God seest me.' You know, Theo, you wouldn't have liked father,
or mother, or even me to have seen you smoking with Tom Blake this
morning, would you, now?"

"No," Theodore answered truthfully.

"God saw you, only you didn't think of Him, did you?"

Theodore sighed deeply, and was silent for a long while. It was quite
dark, so that the children could not discern each other's faces, but
Jack held Theodore's hand firmly in his thin little fingers.

"You must never think anyone hates you, Theo," Jack said at length.
"No one could—you are so kind! I think you will be a hero when you
are a man—brave and strong, and I—"

Jack paused abruptly. He could picture a future for his stepbrother,
but not for himself.

"Do you feel ill to-night, Jack?" Theodore asked uneasily, struck by
an intonation of wistfulness in the other's voice.

"No, not ill—only tired."

"I ought not to have come, bothering you so. Jane would be dreadfully
angry if she knew I was not in bed."

"I felt sure you would come! I should not have been able to sleep
all night if you had stayed away. Has father forgiven you, Theo?"

"Yes. He was very kind to me, and he made me feel so ashamed
of myself. I was sorry when I saw how sorry he was! I thought
at first he was only annoyed about my smoking, but when he said most
likely I set the rick on fire, I expected he might thrash me, and I
was awfully frightened. Somehow he seemed to understand how I felt.
I think father's a brick, don't you?"

"Oh, yes, he is!" Jack agreed cordially.

"I mean always to try and please him for the future," Theodore
proceeded earnestly. "He said the hay-rick was worth many pounds,
but he didn't mind the loss of the money half so much as my having
been with Tom Blake."

"You'll give up Tom Blake now, won't you?" Jack enquired anxiously.

"Yes," was the prompt reply. "Well, I suppose I must go now.
Good night, old fellow!"

"Good night, Theo."

Theodore's talk with Jack had done him good. He went quietly back
to his own room, and was soon asleep. But Jack lay awake for a long
while, thinking of his stepbrother; and in the morning, when his
mother came to see him, as she always did the first thing, she found
him feverish, and tossing about restlessly. Jack was ill; and, as
evening drew on, he grew rapidly worse.

The village doctor came, shook his head gravely, and spoke of further
advice. Then the great London physician was telegraphed for, and the
next morning he arrived, and was shut up for a long time in Jack's
room.

"I am glad he is here," Theodore said to Jane. "It will be all right
now, you'll see. He'll make Jack better, won't he?"

Jane made no answer, so Theodore went downstairs, meaning to wait
in the drawing-room till the doctors came down, hoping to hear what
they thought about his stepbrother. To his surprise he found his
aunts there.

"We are terribly shocked at the sad news," Miss Selina said, kindly
drawing the boy towards her, and kissing his troubled race. "We must
hope for the best, my dear. Jack is in God's hands."

"Oh, he has been very ill before, Aunt Selina, and has always got
well again!"

"Yes, but each attack must leave him weaker. He suffers terribly,
I hear?"

"Oh, yes, he does! Sometimes he can't help crying out; but I expect
the London doctor will give him something to stop the pain; don't you
think so?"

"I hope so."

"You seem very fond of him," Miss Penelope remarked, her voice
sounding unusually soft and gentle.

"I am, Aunt Pen. Oh! here's father!"

"It is very kind of you to come," Mr. Barton said, as he shook hands
with his aunts.

"Can we do anything in any way?" Miss Selina asked, her tone full of
genuine sympathy.

"No, I think not, thank you. The doctors are in the library
discussing their case. I fear there is a very slight hope this time.
The poor little fellow-seems to have no strength left."

"Oh, dear! I am so sorry. How is your wife?"

"Bearing up bravely. She will not break down whilst Jack wants her."

"Father!" cried Theodore, in an awestruck whisper. "Do you mean that
you think Jack will die?"

"I cannot say, my son. We shall know better what to think when we
hear what the doctors have to say. Run away to the nursery now,
Theodore, like a good boy."

Theodore obeyed, and spent the rest of the day most unhappily.
He heard the doctors leave, and listened anxiously to the report
Jane brought him that they thought Jack very dangerously ill, but it
was possible he might rally again if his strength held out. To this
hope, slight though it was, Theodore clung. He wandered aimlessly
about the house and grounds, questioning everyone he came across:

"You think Jack will get better, don't you?"

All hoped he would, for there was not an inmate of Afton Hall who did
not dearly love Theodore's stepbrother.

"It'll be as God wills," old John Bawdon replied, when appealed to
for his opinion. "Maybe the Lord wants the little lad."

"But I want him, John; we all want him!" Theodore cried rebelliously.

"Aye, aye, Master Theodore, so we do. But it's a bit selfish of us
to feel like that, I take it. 'Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard,
neither have entered into the heart of man, the things which God hath
prepared for them that love Him.' And Master Jack loves the Lord
dearly. To think he may see Jesus before me after all! Well, well,
'tis hard to understand. Here am I, old, but hearty yet, and that bit
of a boy has had more suffering in the few years he has lived than I
have had all my long life! Oh, you mustn't grudge him to Jesus,
Master Theodore!"

But Theodore turned impatiently away, and stole once more to the door
of the room where his stepbrother lay. Once Mrs. Barton came out, and
the boy clutched at her dress, and pleaded earnestly to see Jack.
She shook her head sadly, but he persisted in his request.

"No, my dear, no," she whispered. "It cannot be. He is suffering
dreadfully; I cannot let you see him now."

Even as she spoke, Theodore heard a terrible wail from the little
sufferer, and he shrank away in dismay. He saw how the sound wrung
his stepmother's heart.

Her very lips turned pale as she breathed, "Oh, Theodore, pray for
him!"

"I will," he answered; "oh, I will!"

And Theodore went to his own room, and kneeling down by his bedside,
prayed as he had never prayed in his life before; and perhaps it was
the first real prayer his heart had ever offered, for self was
forgotten, and he spoke to God for Jack alone.

"Oh, God!" he cried, "do help Jack, and make him well. Don't mind
what I feel, only take away Jack's pain, for Jesus Christ's sake."

And as he prayed, Theodore felt assured that God was listening
to him, that he was not praying in vain. When he arose from his knees
he was much happier, and when Jane wanted him to go to bed,
he submitted to her wish passively.

It seemed to Theodore that he had been asleep but a short while when
he was aroused by his stepmother's voice.

"Theodore! Theodore!" she cried softly, "Jack wants you. Will you
come?"

He was out of bed in a moment, and not waiting even to slip on his
dressing-gown, followed Mrs. Barton into the passage. At the doorway
of Jack's room she paused, hesitated a moment, then asked anxiously:

"You are not afraid?"

"Afraid!" He lifted his fearless grey eyes to her face
in astonishment, wondering what she meant.

"You need not be; for though he has been so ill, he is not suffering
now," she added quickly, as she opened the door and went to the
bedside.

Theodore peeped into the room. No, Jack was not suffering now, for he
was lying back quietly on the pillows, his dark eyes wide-open,
turned in the direction of the door. The doctor and Mr. Barton stood
near, and Jane hovered in the background.

"Theodore has come to see you, my darling," Mrs. Barton said, as she
bent over her little son and kissed him tenderly.

"Theodore!"

Oh, the wealth of love in the weak voice! Theodore stole quietly
across the floor, and took up his favourite position on the edge
of the bed.

"How are you now, old fellow?" he asked gently. "Better."

The beautiful brown eyes rested contentedly on Theodore's face;
the frail hand sought Theodore's strong clasp.

"Better? that's right! You've been dreadfully bad this time, haven't
you? Never mind, you'll soon be well."

"I hope so."

"Oh, you will!" Theodore declared hopefully.

"I want to get well," Jack whispered faintly. "I wish you would sing
to me, Theo—will you? You know my favourite hymn."

So Theodore sang, "At even, ere the sun was set," quite unmindful
of the presence of any one but Jack, whose face grew radiant as he
listened. When it was ended the little invalid closed his eyes, as
though he was sleepy; but opening them again in a few moments,
he spoke in a distressed voice:

"Mother, I haven't said my prayers!"

"Shall I pray for you to-night, Jack, darling?"

"Please, mother; I can't remember."

His mother repeated very slowly and distinctly the first prayer
she had taught his baby lips to lisp—that prayer to our Father in
Heaven which embraces all our needs; and Jack faintly whispered
the words after her, a look of perfect happiness and contentment
settling on his face.

"Stay with me, Theo," he whispered. "Don't go away."

And Theodore, who was really very sleepy, replied drowsily,
"All right, old fellow," and laid his head on the pillow by his
stepbrother's side.

A few minutes later the doctor moved to the bed, and after a moment's
scrutiny of its occupants, turned a smiling glance towards the
others.

"Your little son will recover from this attack," he told the anxious
mother in a whisper, as he shook hands with her. "You had better let
the children remain as they are. They are both asleep."

He followed Mr. Barton out of the room, whilst Mrs. Barton approached
the bed and saw that the boys were indeed sleeping peacefully.
She gazed at them with a world of thankfulness depicted in her
expressive face, her eyes misty with tears. Jane fetched a warm shawl
and wrapped it around Theodore, who had laid himself down outside the
bedclothes.

The night was nearly gone, and the first streaks of dawn were
appearing in the eastern sky as the two women sat down to watch,
one on either side of the bed. No word was spoken, but each heart
was full to overflowing with joy and gladness at the knowledge that
little Jack was better! and Mrs. Barton, as her eyes rested on the
sleeping children, felt that Theodore, wilful and mistrustful of her
as he seemed to be, could never be otherwise than dear to her,
for the sake of the love he bore her little son.



CHAPTER X.

GOOD NEWS.

WHEN Theodore awoke on the following morning, Jack was still sleeping
peacefully by his side, though the sun was shining high in the sky,
and it was past nine o'clock. Jane hurried her little master to his
own room, and bade him dress as quickly as he could. Her face was
pale and tired with watching; indeed, she felt almost worn out, and
was consequently rather silent, which fact alarmed Theodore, who
feared his stepbrother's life might be still in danger.

"Do you think Jack is really and truly better?" he questioned
eagerly, his face full of anxiety.

"Yes, yes," Jane assured him. "Don't you worry, Master Theodore;
God is going to let the dear lamb stay with us a bit longer. He had a
sharp time yesterday, and you mustn't be surprised or alarmed because
he didn't wake up just now. Sleep will do him more good than
anything, and you shall know the minute he awakes how he is.
Make haste, like a good boy! You and master will have breakfast alone
this morning, for the mistress is going to her own room for a rest."

When Theodore joined his father in the breakfast-room, he had
regained his usual good spirits. He could not realise that it was
so short a while since the episode of the burnt hay-rick; for Jack's
dangerous attack of illness, and the anxiety he had endured on his
stepbrother's account, had made him forget all else. The sight of his
father's face, however, reminded him forcibly of the last occasion
on which they had held a conversation alone together; and the little
boy met Mr. Barton's gaze a trifle uneasily.

"So you and I are to breakfast by ourselves this morning," Mr. Barton
remarked pleasantly, as Theodore took his place opposite to him
at the table. "Jack is still asleep, I hear."

"Yes," Theodore responded, in a subdued tone; "Jane says sleep will
do him more good than anything. But he is really better, isn't he,
father?"

"Yes; there is no doubt about that, I am glad to say."

Mr. Barton spoke brightly and cheerfully, and continued to converse
with his little son without once referring to Tom Blake or the burnt
hay-rick. Theodore understood that no more was to be said on that
subject, and his spirits, ever elastic, rose accordingly. He made
an excellent breakfast, and talked and laughed without restraint.

"You appear very fond of Jack," Mr. Barton said at length, after a
pause in the conversation.

"Yes," Theodore acknowledged, "I am. I thought I shouldn't be.
I quite meant to hate him, but I don't! Aunt Pen said he would put
my nose out of joint. He hasn't; but I shouldn't care if he had!"

"What made Aunt Penelope say that?" Mr. Barton asked, with a slight
frown.

"Oh, I'm sure I don't know! Every one said it! The servants;
Jane—every one!"

"It was very wrong of every one, then. I am glad people did not
succeed in putting you against Jack; for it is a great pleasure to me
to see you boys good friends. I only wish something could be done
to cure the poor little lad. It is a terrible grief to his mother
that he is such an invalid."

"Can't the great London doctor make him well?" Theodore asked.
"He's very clever, isn't he?"

"Yes, I believe he is. I have asked him to come down again next week
to see Jack. He said something about different treatment; but the
poor child was too ill yesterday to think of that. However, I shall
hear what he has to say after he has seen Jack again. I should give
a great deal if he could effect a cure."

"Oh, father!" Theodore cried excitedly, "do you think he might be
able to make Jack really well—well enough to walk about, I mean?"

"I don't know, my boy. I hardly dare indulge in such a bright hope
as that, for Jack's case has been discussed by many doctors, who have
thought it hopeless; but this one certainly did say something which
led me to understand he would like to take Jack in hand himself.
Don't say anything about it at present; more especially, don't
mention it to Jack or his mother."

"Oh, I promise I won't! Oh, father," and as Theodore spoke his face
glowed with happiness at the very thought of Jack being made better,
"if Jack got well I don't know what I should feel! Think what good
times we should have together! I would teach him to ride. I would
lend him Jigger; and you know he's a very quiet, good-tempered pony."

"Don't let your imagination run away with you, Theodore. It may be
Jack will always be a helpless invalid; if so, that is all the more
reason why you should be kind to him, poor little boy!"

"I shall ask God to make him well," Theodore declared earnestly.
"I prayed to God yesterday to take away Jack's pain, and He did."

During the days which followed, Theodore was tempted many times
to repeat what his father had told him about the London doctor;
but, mindful of his promise, he refrained, though every one could see
that he was in a great state of excitement about something.

Although Jack was much pulled down after his severe attack
of illness, he was slowly yet surely regaining his usual amount
of strength, and his mother's pale face grew less anxious as she saw
that this was so. She was considerably surprised when her husband
informed her he had again sent for the famous London doctor to see
her little son, and enquired tremulously if he considered him worse.
But being reassured on that point, she was quite satisfied, and put
no further questions.

When she went upstairs to Jack's room to inform him that a visitor
was coming to see him, she found the two boys together. Jack had not
yet been allowed to leave his bed to be dressed; but he lay posted up
comfortably with pillows, holding an animated conversation with
Theodore, who sat astride the footboard of the bed. He sprang off
as his stepmother entered the room, and stood looking a little
embarrassed, as he often did in her presence.

She advanced to the bed, and sat down on a chair, glancing smilingly
from one boy to the other.

"You seem very merry," she said. "I hope I have not come to disturb
you?"

"Oh, no, mother!" Jack answered promptly, looking at her brightly
and lovingly. "Theodore was telling me about an adventure he had
yesterday. May I tell mother, Theo?"

"If you like," Theodore replied, a trifle ungraciously.

"He was chased by a big calf," Jack said, with a laugh. "He thought
it was a bull, and he was so frightened that he ran into the stream
at the bottom of the lower meadow!"

"It was a yearling," Theodore explained hurriedly. "I heard it
bellow, and I didn't stop to look around, but ran as fast as ever
I could, without looking where I was going. Father saw me, and called
to me to stop."

"He was in the stream then," Jack continued, "and when he turned
around he saw he had been running away from a yearling with little
horns about half an inch long. It was only playful, not in the least
savage."

"But I could not tell that; father said so afterwards. You should
have heard it bellow. Such a tremendous voice it had—enough to scare
any one. I should not have said anything about it if father had not
seen me," Theodore said, growing red, and looking decidedly vexed as
he remembered how his father had laughed at him for being afraid of a
big calf.

"Well, I am sure you acted as I should have done under the
circumstances," Mrs. Barton told him candidly. "I am certain I should
have run away, though perhaps I might have looked to see where I was
going. Did you get very wet?"

"Yes. The water was nearly up to my knees. Jane was cross when she
found out how wet my shoes and stockings were. If you have come
to sit with Jack, I think I'll be off."

"Oh, don't go because I've come!" she exclaimed quickly; "I am not
going to remain long. I only want to tell you, Jack," she said,
turning to her little son, "that the doctor from London, who saw you
when you were so ill the other day, is coming down to see you again."

Jack looked surprised at hearing this; whilst Theodore grew red, and
darted a shrewd glance at his stepmother to see how much she knew.

"When is he coming?" Jack enquired.

"To-morrow, my dear."

"I think I'm sorry," the little invalid said, with a sigh. "I want
to be left alone. I don't want to be pulled about any more. Doctors
hurt my back so much, though of course I know they don't mean to.
I do wish you'd ask father not to let the London doctor come again."

"Oh, Jack!" Theodore cried impetuously. "Don't say that! You must see
him—indeed you must! Perhaps he'll be able to make you better!"

Jack shook his head sadly, for he did not think that the least
likely, nor did his mother, for that matter; but she explained that
an arrangement had been made for the London doctor to visit him
on the following day, and the plan could not be altered now.

"Very well," Jack said, with an air of resignation, "but I hope
he won't stay long. It's very kind of father to send for him, but no
one can make me better."

"God can," Theodore interposed eagerly; "you know, Jack, I've heard
you say that often!"

"Oh, yes! but—"

"Perhaps He'll teach the London doctor how to cure you," Theodore
proceeded hurriedly, "at any rate I mean to ask Him!"

Jack smiled, and cast a grateful, loving glance at his stepbrother,
whilst Mrs. Barton looked from one to the other with a puzzled
expression in her eyes. She did not understand Theodore's manner;
and for a moment the suspicion crossed her mind that he knew more
about the doctor's expected visit than he meant to say. But,
on reflection, she thought that a very unlikely idea, and told
herself that it was only his love and anxiety for Jack that made him
so eager and excited.

The next day found Theodore far too restless to await patiently the
result of the doctor's visit. He wandered aimlessly about the house
and grounds, unable to settle to anything.

"I don't know what's come to him," Jane said to Mrs. Barton;
"he's most unlike himself. It seems to me he has something on his
mind. I hope he has not been in mischief again."

"I hope not," Mrs. Barton responded seriously.

She forgot all about Theodore when the London doctor arrived and
in company with the village practitioner made a careful examination
of the little invalid. Afterwards, when the doctors had gone
downstairs, and were shut in the library together, she left Jack
in Jane's care, and joined her husband in the drawing-room.

As soon as Theodore, who was in his own bedroom, heard his stepmother
follow the others downstairs, he went in to see Jack, and found him
lying back in bed, looking pale and weary. Theodore commenced to ply
him with questions.

"What did the London doctor say? Did he hurt you much?"

"No, not much," Jack responded. "He was very gentle, and he asked me
how I should like to be a patient of his. I told him I didn't think
it was worth while his bothering about me, because I knew he couldn't
cure me."

"But how do you know he can't? Oh, Jack, supposing he could,
what would you say then?"

"It's no good thinking, Theo!"

"I wouldn't worry Master Jack with too much talking," Jane interposed
at this point; "can't you see he's looking very tired, Master
Theodore?"

"Oh! indeed he doesn't worry me! He never does!" Jack cried.

"You don't know anything about it!" Theodore exclaimed rudely,
turning an indignant glance upon Jane; "you needn't interfere!"

"Theodore!"

Jack's voice was full of gentle reproach. The anger died from
Theodore's face, and he muttered something under his breath about
being sorry, which Jane thought it wisest to take as an apology.
At that moment the door opened, and Mrs. Barton entered with flushed
cheeks and glistening eyes.

"Oh, Jack, my darling!" she said tenderly, as she bent over her
little son, "I have such news for you—such wonderful news!"

Jack put his arms around her neck, and drew her face down to his.

"Tell me," he whispered.

And then she told him that the great London doctor thought that
in time he might be cured, and even be able to walk and run about
like other little boys.

For several minutes Jack seemed incapable of grasping the meaning
of her words; but when at last he did understand his mother's news,
he uttered a little gasping cry of joy, and burst into a flood
of tears.

"Oh, Jack!" Theodore exclaimed, "aren't you glad? I thought you
wanted to get well, and I prayed to God to teach the London doctor
how to make you better. Oh, don't cry, old fellow! there's nothing
to cry about."

"It's because I'm so glad. I—I can't help it," Jack sobbed.
"Oh, Theo, to think that perhaps I may be going to get well after
all!"

"Hurrah!" cried Theodore, restraining his high spirits no longer,
but capering around the room in a state of wild excitement. "Won't we
have fine times together! Won't we have fun! Won't—"

But his words came to an abrupt conclusion, for Jane, fearful lest
his behaviour might have an ill effect on the little invalid, caught
him by the shoulder, and whisked him out of the room before he had
time to realise her intention. He went downstairs, and spread the
good news amongst the servants, and then hurried into the garden
in search of John Bawdon, certain that in him he would find a ready
sympathiser in his joy.



CHAPTER XI.

THE ARRIVAL AT BLACKBURN FARM.

A YEAR had passed since Mr. Barton had brought home his bride and her
little son to Afton Hall. Once more it was early spring; once more
the crocuses and daffodils were in bloom, and old John Bawdon was
turning over the brown earth with his spade, and musing, meanwhile,
on the changes which the past twelve months had brought about.
He thought of the day on which Jane had informed her little master
in his presence of the existence of his stepbrother, and remembered
how anxious and uneasy he had himself felt at the sight of Theodore's
rebellious face, with its flashing grey eyes and determined mouth.

At the further end of the garden two figures were to be seen at that
moment—boys' forms—one taller, and sturdier than the other. The old
man smiled contentedly at the sight, for the two were Theodore and
Jack. The latter was, happily, no longer an invalid, for the
London doctor had been right in his opinion; and under his treatment
Jack had slowly gained strength, until there had come a
never-to-be-forgotten day, when he could walk a few steps with the
help of crutches. The crutches had been discarded altogether,
several months ago now, and though Jack still looked delicate,
especially beside his stepbrother, who was a perfect picture
of robust health, he was able to move about unaided, and improved
in vigour day by day. He now joined Theodore in his lessons, walking
to the Nest with him to receive instruction from Miss Penelope.
Mr. Barton talked of engaging a tutor for the boys later on,
but there was time enough to think of that; for the present,
the existing arrangement seemed satisfactory.

"To think how I worried at the thought of a new mistress," ruminated
old John Bawdon, "and the blessing she's been to us all! Well, 'tis
wrong to doubt the ways of the Almighty! He knows best!" He leaned on
his spade, and looked at the boys. "They make a pretty pair,"
he thought, "but anyone can tell which is the leader. Master Theodore
has a masterful way with him, to be sure, and 'tis easy to see Master
Jack takes a pattern by him—not but what Master Jack has a mind
of his own, too, although he always seems so gentle and
tender-hearted!"

Presently the boys approached the old man, and began to talk
with him. He was generally full of anecdotes and stories about things
which had happened in his youth, and knew so many interesting facts
about birds, and animals, and flowers, that he was a most
entertaining companion.

On this occasion Theodore commenced the conversation by asking:

"Were you ever on Dartmoor, John?"

"Yes, sir," was the prompt reply, whilst a smile lit up the old man's
withered countenance; "I was born at Naraton, and that's right in the
midst o' the hills."

"Were you, indeed? I never knew that!"

"Very likely not, sir! Your grandfather owned a farm on Dartmoor,
the same that belongs to your father now, near the little village
of Naraton, and my father was a labourer, who worked on the estate.
I mind when your grandfather was a small boy, he used to come and
stay at the farm 'long with his mother, for the sake of the bracing
air, and many a ramble he and I have had across the moors together.
He took quite a fancy to me, and that's how it was I came to be so
fortunate as to get employment here—a lad was wanted to make himself
generally useful about the place, and I got the job. I've been here
ever since, and hope to remain as long as I live. Was I ever on
Dartmoor, indeed!" the old man exclaimed, chuckling at the thought;
"aye, was I!"

"Do tell us what it is like," Jack said, coaxingly; "because we want
to know for a very particular reason, don't we, Theo?"

Theodore nodded; and John Bawdon proceeded:

"It's grand on Dartmoor! The air's so fine and fresh it puts strength
into one's veins and braces one up! I've been on the moors in all
weathers—when the sky has looked like one great sea of blue, and
there hasn't been a scrap of shade anywhere, and the heather's been
in bloom—the most beautiful sight—miles upon miles of purple with
never a break! Then I've seen the moors all covered with fog, so
thick that you couldn't see your hand if you held it close to your
eyes!"

"Father says people often get lost in those fogs," Theodore remarked,
"and sometimes they get into bogs, don't they?"

"Yes. It is a serious business to be lost in a fog on Dartmoor, and
it can happen easier than you think. I mind when I was a bit of a lad
not much older than you, Master Theodore, I missed my way in a fog
one dull November afternoon, and should have had to spend the whole
night on the moor if it hadn't cleared. I was crouching for shelter
under a great granite rock, half-dead with cold I really believe,
when I saw a glow of light appear. The fog cleared almost suddenly,
and the full moon slowly sailed upwards into the sky, making
everything show out as plainly as though it was day. It was a grand
sight, I can tell you! I ran home as fast as ever I could, and glad
enough my parents were to see me, for they had missed me, and when
they saw the fog come down, had made up their minds I was lost on the
moors, and would like enough perish with cold."

"But couldn't your father have gone to look for you?" questioned
Jack. "That's what I should have thought he would have done."

The old man shook his head gravely.

"A man may be born on the moors," he said, "and yet not be able
to find his way in a fog. My father could walk almost everywhere
in the dark, but a fog is very misleading. There was a convict
I heard of once who escaped from Princetown Prison, which is right
in the heart of Dartmoor. He stole away in a dense fog, thinking
to escape easier. He ran for miles and miles, not knowing where he
was going, but imagining he was getting further and further away from
the prison; and, by-and-by, worn out and footsore, he lay down on the
ground to rest. He soon fell asleep, and when he awoke the fog had
cleared away, and he—now, where do you suppose he was?"

The boys shook their heads. Their eyes were fixed intently upon the
old man's face, whilst he was well pleased to see them so deeply
interested.

"He was right outside the prison," John Bawdon declared solemnly;
"he had run in a circle, and come back to the very spot from which
he had started. He saw it was no good trying to escape then, so he
just allowed himself to be taken again. You see how misleading a fog
can be, and if you ever find yourself on Dartmoor, you mind what I've
told you!"

"Do you know, John," said Theodore, "that most likely we shall be
going there soon. Father said at breakfast this morning that he
thought a month at his farm at Naraton would be a nice change for us
all, and he would write to Mrs. Fry, the farmer's wife, to know
if she can take us in."

"Oh, I hope she will!" Jack cried, his face all aglow with glad
expectancy. "Father says he would like us to go as soon as the spring
really comes. He is going too, and mother, and Jane."

"What will Miss Penelope say?" asked the old man smiling. "Is she
willing to give you both a holiday?"

"Oh, yes!" the boys replied; and Theodore added: "I suppose if we go
it will be about Easter."

Mrs. Fry wrote in due course to the effect that she would be glad
to receive her landlord and his family. She was accustomed to take
lodgers during the summer months, and considered herself fortunate
to have an opportunity of letting her rooms so early in the year.

Naraton was a pretty little village, situated in a valley amid the
Dartmoor tors. The surrounding country was very rough, great rocks
of granite being scattered over all the fields, making the land
exceedingly difficult to cultivate. Naraton Church, a grand old
edifice, which had withstood the storms of several hundreds of years,
was built entirely of granite, and most of the tombstones in the
churchyard were of the same durable, grey stone. The village, about a
score of cottages in all, was built almost in a circle around a green
open space, known as "Naraton Green," which was given up to a lot of
poultry belonging to the inhabitants of the surrounding dwellings.
There was a blacksmith's shop close to the entrance to the
churchyard, and on the opposite side of the Green was the post
office, which was also a sort of general store, where drapery,
groceries, and all kinds of commodities for household use might be
obtained.

A beautiful April day was drawing to a close as an open carriage
drawn by a pair of horses appeared at the bend of the road by the
blacksmith's shop, and swept around Naraton Green on its way
to Blackburn Farm. Inside the carriage were Mrs. Barton, Jane, and
the two boys; whilst Mr. Barton occupied the box-seat with the
driver.

"Sit still, do sit still, Master Theodore," Jane remonstrated
as Theodore stood up, the better to gaze about him. "If the carriage
should jerk upon a stone you might be thrown out, and that would be
a bad beginning to a holiday."

"Oh, Jane, what a fidget you are!" Theodore cried impatiently,
resenting the manner in which she clutched him by the sleeve. "Let go
my arm! Do you think I'm a baby, to want looking after like that?"

"I wish you'd be as quiet as Master Jack," she continued
reproachfully; "he doesn't worry as you do!"

"Oh, no!" Theodore retorted scornfully, "of course not. You're always
saying, 'I wish you'd be more like Master Jack,'" he proceeded,
mimicking her tone. "I'm not like him, so what's the good of wishing
me to be?"

"Do as Jane tells you at once, Theodore," Mrs. Barton said quietly,
in the tone which her little stepson knew he must obey whether he
liked doing so or not. "Sit down, like a good boy."

At that moment the carriage swerved around a corner rather sharply,
and Theodore was nearly thrown off his feet. He sat down then,
looking exceedingly foolish; and in a few minutes more they arrived
at their destination, where they were greeted by the farmer and his
wife—the former a big, silent man; the latter a small, cherry-cheeked
woman, with a pair of bright blue eyes, and a brisk, business-like
manner. She escorted her lodgers to her best parlour—which was a
comfortable apartment with a low ceiling, oak-panelled walls, and a
broad, cushioned window-sill—and smiled complacently when she noted
the satisfaction on their faces.

"I am glad tea is ready," Theodore remarked, his eyes roving over the
table, where a substantial meal was laid. "Aren't you hungry, Jack?"

"Not very," Jack answered; "but I'm very tired."

Mrs. Barton and Jane had gone upstairs, whilst Mr. Barton was still
outside in conversation with the farmer, Mrs. Fry and her husband
had not lived long at Blackburn Farm, and consequently knew but
little of their landlord; therefore, it was quite natural Mrs. Fry
should think that Theodore and Jack were real brothers.

"Your brother does not look so strong as you do," she remarked
to Theodore as she made some trifling alteration to the tea-table.

"No," Theodore returned promptly; "Jack used to be very ill, but he's
much better now. Father says he expects the moorland air will make
him quite strong."

"It was my back," Jack explained. "I hurt it, and for years
I couldn't walk at all."

Mrs. Fry expressed her sympathy, and continued talking to the boys.

"You are like your mother," she told Jack, whose face flushed with
pleasure at her words. "You have her eyes, and her smile; but you,—"
and she turned to Theodore, "you don't favour her in the least."

"She is not my mother," Theodore replied, growing very red.
"My mother is dead. She was very good, and very beautiful, and she
died when I was born. Jack and I are not brothers really."

"But I can see you are great friends," Mrs. Fry said, nodding her
head in a knowing fashion and smiling. "You are very fond of each
other, are you not?"

"Oh, yes!" they both answered.

"Ah, I thought as much! I can see Mrs. Barton is a kind lady,"
she proceeded, addressing Theodore. "I expect you love her as though
she was your own mother, don't you?"

"No!"

The answer was fiercely spoken, accompanied by an indignant flash
of the bright, grey eyes. Mrs. Fry wished she had not been quite
so inquisitive, more especially as Mrs. Barton had evidently
overheard her question and Theodore's angry response, for she now
entered the room and quietly took her place at the tea-table.

Long after the boys had gone to bed that night Mrs. Barton thought
of Theodore's fierce "No!" and recalled the passionate tone of his
voice. She wondered how it was she was so incapable of winning his
love. No one put him against her now, of that she was certain; and
yet she could not uproot from his mind that feeling of distrust which
he had formed for her before they met. Sometimes she thought he was
learning to care for her; and then she would see the old dislike
creeping over his tell-tale face, and her heart would ache at the
thought that she might never win his affection.

This moorland holiday had been planned for Jack's sake; in fact,
Mr. Barton had suggested leaving Theodore at home, to the tender
mercies of his great-aunts, but his wife had negatived the idea
at once. Theodore's health might not necessitate a change of air,
but she had rightly guessed what his feelings would have been if he
had had to remain at Afton Hall. Perhaps he would have been grateful
to his stepmother if he had known it was entirely owing to her that
he slept beneath the roof of Blackburn Farm that night; but he was
in ignorance of that fact, and fell asleep with the determination
not to allow her to interfere with his pleasure, as she was often
obliged to do, for his own good.



CHAPTER XII.

A MORNING'S EXPERIENCE.

THEODORE and Jack occupied the same bedroom at Blackburn Farm. It was
a cheerful apartment, into which the sun streamed during the early
morning hours, through small lattice windows, as though with an
invitation to get up and see how fair the world was at dawn of day;
or so, at any rate, Theodore fancied as he opened his eyes the first
morning of his sojourn on Dartmoor.

He sat up in bed, scarcely realising for a moment where he was as he
gazed around the strange room with its heavy old-fashioned furniture.
Near by in another little bed lay Jack, still sleeping tranquilly.

"Jack! Jack!" cried Theodore, "wake up this minute, do! The sun's
shining, and the birds are singing! It's a glorious morning! You know
we agreed last night we'd be up early to-day!"

But Jack slept on, not hearing his stepbrother's voice, or if he did,
it failed to arouse him, for he merely heaved a gentle sigh as though
a little disturbed in his sleep.

Theodore sprang out of bed, rushed to the window, and looked out.
He had a complete view of the farmyard, in which a group of sleek
cows were placidly waiting to be milked; and whilst he still peeped,
a trim dairymaid appeared upon the scene, bearing a milk-pail and
stool. The sight roused Theodore to prompt action. He flew to Jack's
side, and shook the sleeping boy vigorously by the shoulder. Jack
opened his brown eyes in mingled fright and astonishment, but
recognising Theodore, asked what he wanted.

"Get up, old fellow!" Theodore said, laughing at the bewilderment
on the other's face. "The cows are going to be milked, and if you
dress quickly you'll be in time to have a glass of new milk."

"I don't care about any," Jack replied, blinking sleepily. "Do go
back to bed again; I am sure it is not time to get up yet!"

"It is!" Theodore declared. He was wide awake himself, and saw
no reason why his stepbrother should be allowed to sleep any longer.

"If it was time to get up Jane would call us," Jack said, yawning.
"I'm going to sleep again, and you'd better do the same—" and he
turned on his side and closed his eyes.

Theodore gazed at him doubtfully for a moment. Last night Jack had
seemed so eager to rise early, and now he declined to do so. It was
too bad! How could he want to sleep with the sun streaming in the
windows!

"Get up! If you don't I'll pull the bedding off!" Theodore
threatened. "I mean it! What a miserable little owl you are, Jack!"

"Oh, Theo, don't! Please don't!"

It was no good to protest, for Theodore was as good as his word.
The next minute the bedclothes lay in a heap on the floor, and Jack
had perforce to jump out of bed. He began to dress, grumbling a
little after such treatment, as was only natural; but he was
a good-tempered boy, and not in the least resentful, besides he
remembered he had agreed to rise early.

"It is a beautiful day," he said presently. "I do hope we are going
to have fine weather whilst we're here! I think I'm glad you made me
get up, Theo!"

"I knew you would be. Are you ready to go downstairs?"

"Not quite. I haven't said my prayers."

Theodore had forgotten all about his prayers in his eagerness to be
out of doors. He had the grace to blush with shame as his stepbrother
knelt down by the window-sill, and reverently buried his face in his
hands. He knelt down too, and repeated the form of prayer he was in
the habit of saying in the morning, and then glanced at his
stepbrother again. It was several minutes before Jack rose from his
knees.

"What long prayers you say," Theodore remarked; "mine don't take
half the time!"

"You see there's so much I want to tell God," Jack responded smiling,
"and so many things to thank Him for."

"What sort of things?" the other asked curiously.

"Oh, for taking such good care of me, and making people so kind.
Then every day I thank God for making me well; and I thank Him
for you, Theo."

"For me?" Theodore cried in great surprise. "What do you mean?"

"Your mother wanted you to be called Theodore, because it means
'Gift of God,'" Jack said earnestly, his dark eyes resting lovingly
on his stepbrother's face, "and I think that's what you are to me.
God gave you to me when I was very ill, and I never forget to thank
Him for that!"

"What an odd idea!"

Theodore reflected a moment, asking himself how he would like to go
back to the old days, before his stepmother and her little son had
come to Afton Hall. He remembered how moody and irritable his father
used to be; how the servants had continually quarrelled amongst
themselves; and how lonely he himself had often been. All that was
altered now. Then, had he nothing to thank God for, too? Jack's
simple faith and grateful love put him to shame.

The two boys went quietly downstairs and out into the yard, where
they stood and watched the cows milked, and drank a glassful each
of the warm, frothy beverage which the milkmaid offered them.
Mrs. Fry was up, bustling hither and thither. She allowed the boys
to feed the poultry, and told them how often members of her feathered
family fall victims to a sly old fox which had lived in the district
for years.

"They hunt him every winter," she explained; "but there! he knows
the moors better than any huntsman does, and it's my belief they'll
never catch him. Last autumn he had several of my young turkeys;
dear, dear, I was vexed: turkeys are so difficult to rear, too!"

In a corner of the yard was a pond where the geese and ducks
disported themselves, and the boys spent some time in watching
a brood of ducklings which had taken to the water that morning
for the first time. Then they caught sight of the farmer, and tore
after him to enquire where he was going. He explained that he was
about to visit some sheep and lambs in a field near by, and
good-naturedly invited the boys to accompany him. He spoke the
broadest moorland dialect, so that his little companions found some
difficulty in understanding what he said at first; and in consequence
had often to ask him to repeat his remarks, whereupon he would raise
his voice, as though he thought they must be deaf, greatly to their
amusement.

"I think I like the black and white lambs best," Jack said
to Theodore, as they stood in the gateway of a field where a score
or more of lambs frisked about by their mothers' sides, whilst the
farmer strolled around examining his flock. "Oh, Theo, look! there's
one all black. Isn't he a beauty! What a curly back he has!"

"I wonder if I could catch him."

"Not likely."

"I'll try."

Theodore crept cautiously towards the black lamb, which immediately
ran away bleating in search of its mother. Jack laughed; but the
farmer called to Theodore not to worry the sheep, so he desisted,
and returned to his stepbrother.

Mr. Fry disappeared from sight behind a large block of granite in one
corner of the field; and when he reappeared he was carrying something
in his arms, whilst Help, the sheep-dog, followed close at his heels.

"I wonder what he has found?" Theodore exclaimed. "Why, I do believe
it's a little lamb!"

A lamb it was, only a few hours old. The farmer explained that its
mother had two others besides, and three was one too many for her
to care for. He meant to take this little creature home for his wife
to bring up by hand.

"Oh, please do let me carry it!" Jack cried, as he smoothed its
woolly coat with a gentle touch.

"No, Jack," said Theodore quickly; "I had better carry it, for I am
much stronger than you."

"But it is not heavy, is it?" Jack asked, appealing to Mr. Fry.

The farmer glanced from one eager face to the other, and shook his
head. He wished to please both boys; and after a moment's
consideration suggested that they should take it in turns to carry
the lamb. They willingly agreed to this proposition; and it was
decided that Jack should have the lamb for the first half of the
homeward way. The little animal was certainly not a great weight,
but it was heavier than Jack had expected; so that he was not sorry
when Theodore took his burden from his arms, and marched on ahead,
with "Help" at his side.

Theodore's arms were strong, and they did not tire as his
stepbrother's had done. The farmer advised him to walk quietly;
but he was in a hurry to arrive at the farm, to exhibit the lamb
to Mr. and Mrs. Barton and Jane, and deliberately turned a deaf ear
to what Mr. Fry was saying.

They were nearing the farm now, and in another minute came in sight
of the gate which divided the yard from the road. Mr. and Mrs. Barton
were leaning over the gate, evidently on the look-out for the boys.
When Theodore saw them, he quickened his footsteps to a run, and
shouted to them to look and see what he had got. Hardly had he spoken
when his toe caught in a loose stone in the rugged road; and before
he knew what was happening, he slipped, and rolled down the side of
the road into a deep ditch which was nearly half-full of muddy water.

Jack uttered a cry of dismay, whilst the farmer ran forward to
Theodore's assistance, and Mr. and Mrs. Barton came hurrying down
the road.

[Illustration: The farmer advised him to walk quietly.]

"Oh, poor Theo!" gasped Jack, wringing his hands with affright.
"Oh, the poor, dear little lamb!"

By this time Mr. Fry had dragged Theodore out of the ditch, and had
rescued the lamb, which the boy had dropped. Happily it was not
injured in the least, though it bleated pityfully, and of course
was cold and wet after its immersion in the muddy water.

Theodore sat on the edge of the ditch, mud-stained and miserable,
whilst Jack and his stepmother bent over him anxiously, and enquired
if he was hurt. He shook his head, feeling more than half-inclined
to cry; but he bit his lip, and blinked the tears out of his eyes
manfully.

"You had better get up and return to the farm as quickly as you can,"
Mr. Barton remarked dryly. "Change your clothes at once. Really,
Theodore, you are extremely careless!"

"Who would think there was a dirty old ditch like that by the side
of the road!" Theodore exclaimed vexedly. "It ought to be filled in!"

"I am most, thankful you are not hurt," his stepmother told him.
"You might have been injured, and the poor lamb too."

Mr. Fry was disappearing from sight with the lamb in his arms,
anxious to get the little thing dried and fed. Theodore looked after
him ruefully.

"I don't know what he'll think of me," he said in a regretful tone.
"He told me to be careful, too!"

"Come, Theodore, get up at once!" his father interposed sharply.
"Are you going to sit there in your wet clothes all day?"

Theodore arose with a shiver, and slowly turned towards the farm.
He looked a pitiable object indeed, and he hung his head dejectedly.
Jack walked by his side, offering words of consolation, and wondering
what Jane would say when she saw her young master's deplorable
condition.

But for once Jane refrained from scolding. She saw Theodore
was smarting under a sense of the indignity of his fall, and merely
recommended a good wash and a change of clothing.

When Theodore appeared at the breakfast-table he was in a subdued
frame of mind. His father asked him how he had enjoyed his mud-bath,
and seemed inclined to make a joke of his late experience. The little
boy was grateful that his stepmother did not join in the laugh
against him, but, on the contrary, tried to turn the conversation
into another channel. After the meal was over she drew him aside, and
told him that she had been to the kitchen herself, and ascertained
that the lamb was no worse for the accident. Mrs. Fry had dried it
by the fire, and fed it with warm milk.

"Is Mr. Fry very angry with me?" Theodore asked anxiously.

"No, not angry at all. But you must learn to be more careful,
my dear; you are too impetuous. You must listen to what others say,
especially when they are older and wiser than yourself. Mr. Fry told
me he had desired you to walk quietly."

"Yes, he had; but you see I didn't know the ditch was there."

"Ah, but Mr. Fry did!"

Theodore was silenced. He realised that his stepmother was right, and
that he did not attend to what he was told as he ought.

His morning's experience somewhat damped his spirits for the
remainder of the day, for he was conscious that every one about the
farm knew what had occurred. He sought Mr. Fry, and told him
how sorry he was he had been so careless. The farmer was very kind,
and begged him to think no more of it, assuring him that the lamb was
unhurt, and promising to have the ditch filled up to prevent further
accidents.

"I wish I was more like you, old fellow," Theodore said
confidentially to Jack after they were in bed that night.

"Like me, Theo!" Jack cried, in great surprise.

"Yes. You always listen to what people tell you, and do as you're
told. I don't."

"But you could if you liked."

"No," replied Theodore mournfully; "I forget."

Jack was silent for a short while; then he made a suggestion.

"Couldn't you ask God to help you to remember?" he said earnestly.

"Oh, yes; of course I could!" was the more cheerful response. "That's
a good idea of yours, Jack. I'll ask Him to-night."



CHAPTER XIII.

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.

MR. BARTON spent the greater part of his time in fishing in the river
Dart. He was a keen sportsman, and often passed long, solitary days
engaged in his favourite recreation; sometimes, however, he took
the boys with him. They thoroughly enjoyed the novelty at first, but
after a while they found it slow work watching Mr. Barton flogging
the stream, and found amusements which suited them better.

One of the first acquaintances they made at Naraton was Seth Stanley,
the village blacksmith. He was a dark, stern-visaged man of middle
age, with a very tender heart beneath a rough exterior. The first
occasion on which he and the boys met, was when the latter
accompanied Mr. Fry to the blacksmith's shop in order to see Boxer,
the farmer's favourite horse, shod.

Boxer was a sort of general factotum, if such a term may be applied
to a horse. It was his duty to perform odd jobs upon the farm, and
make himself generally useful. Mr. Fry drove him to a neighbouring
market town every week in a roomy, old-fashioned gig, and often he
carried the farmer many miles to fetch a flock of sheep, or a herd
of cattle. He was really an invaluable animal, for when required
he did not disdain to do a little ploughing, or draw a cart. The boys
were greatly surprised when they learnt that Boxer was sixteen years
old, for he had plenty of spirit yet; and having always been well fed
and carefully tended, did not look his age. Mr. Fry had owned him
since he had been a colt, and looked upon him in the light of an
old friend.

After Boxer had been carefully fitted with new shoes, the farmer led
him off, whilst the boys still lingered outside the blacksmith's
shop. Seth Stanley invited them to sit down on a long stool which was
placed inside the doorway. He kept the stool there on purpose for his
visitors, for he dearly loved to get some of the villagers in to talk
with him. A very kindly gossip was Seth Stanley, and a most
fascinating place was his shop, with its immense fire and steaming
forge.

Theodore and Jack accepted the invitation to "step inside and sit
down for a few minutes," with alacrity, watching the blacksmith
in his leathern apron with admiring eyes whilst he took a bar of iron
from the fire, and sent the sparks flying upwards as he placed it
on the anvil and beat it with his hammer.

"Oh, Theo," whispered Jack, "isn't he strong? Wouldn't you like to be
a blacksmith? I should!"

Theodore nodded. Presently Seth Stanley turned his attention to his
young visitors. "Well," he said, as he stood before them in his shirt
sleeves with his arms crossed, "what do you think of my trade? Eh?"

He spoke with but a touch of the moorland dialect, in a voice which
was singularly mellow and deep.

"I think it's a very nice trade," Theodore replied, politely;
"my stepbrother was just asking me if I wouldn't like to be a
blacksmith."

Seth Stanley glanced at Jack's pale face and slight form, a smile
crossing his own countenance the while.

"I am stronger than I look," Jack said quickly. "I am not delicate
like I used to be. Am I, Theo?"

"He used to have a bad back," Theodore explained, "but it's quite
well now. He gets tired quicker than I do, but the doctors say he
will grow stronger by-and-bye."

"Ah! the fine moorland air will put fresh life into him,"
the blacksmith declared. "So you are stepbrothers, I hear?"

The boys nodded.

"Which of you is Mr. Barton's son?"

"I am. Have you any children, Mr. Stanley?" Theodore asked, with
polite interest, thinking he was justified in putting a question
in his turn.

"No, sir; I never married. You may call me Seth, if you please—
most folks do. No, I've neither chick nor child belonging to me.
I've a brother, but he and his family stick to their caravan."

"Stick to their caravan!" the boys echoed in astonishment.

"I come from gipsy stock. Stanley's a gipsy name," the blacksmith
informed them. "I was born in a tent under the shelter of one of the
Tors, and I've always had a kind of affection for Dartmoor on that
account. Here's my native air, young gentlemen, and it's never too
keen for me even in the sharpest weather. Ah, you look surprised
to think I'm a gipsy! Perhaps you've been taught to despise the
wandering race?"

"No, no!" Theodore cried hastily, "you mustn't think that."

"No, indeed," Jack added earnestly, "mother wouldn't teach us
to despise anyone; that is, she always says so long as people are
good, nothing else matters much."

"Your mother's quite right," was the hearty response. "But there's
a lot of prejudice against gipsies, and perhaps it's not to be
wondered at. When I was your age I expect it would have been
difficult to find a more hardened young wretch for lying and stealing
than I was! Often and often I've wondered I never came to be
a gaolbird; but God spoke to me in time!"

"How did God speak to you?" Theodore asked, with great curiosity;
then, fearing his question might be deemed impertinent, he added,
deprecatingly, "please don't tell us if you would rather not."

"I don't mind your knowing," the blacksmith returned readily,
"in fact it's a tale I'm rather partial to telling to show the loving
kindness of Almighty God. It was this way. My mother died when I was
a little chap, younger than either of you, and after she was gone,
my father travelled the country with me and my brother, doing a trade
in horse dealing. Father wasn't a bad sort at heart, but during one
winter, which we spent near a big town in the north of England,
he became mixed up with a shady lot of people, and they got the best
of him, and made him the scapegoat for them all. It was a case of
burglary, and my father was taken by the police. He might have got
off easy if he'd have told who his accomplices were. But no,
he wasn't one of that sort! So he got five years' penal servitude,
and was sent to Princetown Prison. Have you ever seen the prison,
young gentlemen?"

"No," they answered, their eager faces expressing their interest
in his story.

"Ah! you can't think what it feels to a gipsy to be a prisoner.
It killed my father; he couldn't stand it. My brother and I found
our way to Princetown, and got hold of the prison chaplain,
who promised he'd try to get us an interview with father because he
was ill, and not likely to recover. Well, we saw him, and he was
dying—poor old father!" The blacksmith passed the back of his hand
across his eyes, and continued, "He could just speak. 'Seth,' he said
to me, 'I'm dying, but I'm not afraid. Him as was born in a stable,
and was the Friend of sinners and outcasts like us—He's going along
with me. Promise you'll find Him too.' Well, I promised, and poor
father died. Afterwards my brother and I went away, and earned our
livings as best we could. My promise to father didn't trouble me
much; I'd only given it to satisfy him, you see. But, some years
afterwards, I fell sick, and was taken to a hospital, and there they
told me of that same Lord Jesus, the Friend of sinners and outcasts,
poor father had wanted me to find; and I learnt I hadn't far to go
to seek Him because He was everywhere."

"Well?" questioned Jack eagerly, his eyes shining with a brilliant
light, his usually pale cheeks flushed.

"Well, sir, I found Him, and I've tried to live an honest life ever
since. I'd learnt to be a blacksmith, and as there wasn't one
in Naraton, I came and started business here, and I've done well."

"How mother would like to hear your story!" Jack exclaimed. "Would
you mind if I told her?"

"Not at all, sir. It always seems very wonderful to me, because good
came out of evil. If father hadn't been sent to prison he might never
have found the Lord Jesus. I've told the tale to many, and mayhaps
it's been a lesson to some."

There was a short silence, which Theodore broke by asking:

"Didn't you say your brother lived in a caravan?"

"Yes, sir. He's a married man with a troop of youngsters. Sometimes
in the summer they find their way here, and glad enough I am to see
them. Farmer Fry allows them to encamp in one of his fields, and they
can have as much milk as they like from the farm, and Mrs. Fry knows
her poultry's safe though there are gipsies upon the estate."

"It must be fun living in a caravan," Theodore said with enthusiasm.
"I think I should like to be a gipsy."

Seth Stanley shook his head, laughing at the idea.

"Or I should like to be a great traveller, or an explorer," Theodore
proceeded, "and have wonderful adventures."

"I suppose you've explored the places around here?" the blacksmith
said enquiringly.

"We've been for several long walks with mother and Jane,"
Jack answered, "and father takes us fishing with him sometimes."

"Have you never been to the Hermit's Cave?"

"No!" Theodore replied quickly. "Where is it? What is it? Is it far?"

Seth Stanley went to the doorway of his shop, the boys following,
and pointed to the range of hills which stretched before their eyes
in the distance, bathed in the bright spring sunshine.

"Do you see that Tor, the highest of the lot, the one with a mass
of granite rocks near the top?"

"Yes!" the boys responded eagerly. "Is the Hermit's Cave there?"

"Nearly at the highest point of the hill on the north side. Folks
can't decide whether Nature or man formed the cave. 'Tis made
of granite, as though hewn out of the rock; and many years ago there
was a great granite boulder in front of the opening, but that was
rolled away long since. 'Tis said a hermit lived and died there; and,
as in the case of Moses, no one but God knows where he was buried,
but I can't vouch whether that's true or not."

"What is a hermit?" Theodore questioned.

"Oh, Theo, don't you know?" Jack cried. "There are no hermits
now-a-days, at least I don't think there are, but they used to be
very holy men, who lived alone, and spent their lives in prayer.
I suppose they were very good," he added doubtfully, "but it seems
rather a silly idea to live away from everyone else, doesn't it?"

"So it does, sir," the blacksmith agreed, "but I've heard tell those
old hermits were a great deal thought of in their time, and I suppose
they fancied they were doing right. Perhaps they did the best
they knew, and if so, they couldn't do more, as God will remember
at the Judgment Day."

"I think we ought to be going now," Jack remarked regretfully,
"or mother will wonder where we are. May we come to see you again?"

"I shall be very pleased to see both of you whenever you honour me
with a visit," Seth Stanley responded heartily, a pleasant smile
brightening his dark countenance. "Good morning to you, young
gentlemen!"

"Good morning!" shouted the boys as they ran across the green,
looking back and waving their hands to their new friend, who stood
watching them till they turned down the road which led to Blackburn
Farm.

"Jack," said Theodore, as out of breath they slackened their pace,
"wouldn't you like to see the Hermit's Cave?"

"Indeed I should! Shall we ask mother to take us there one day?"
Jack suggested.

"No, no!" Theodore cried hastily. "It would be much nicer if we went
by ourselves, then we could pretend we were explorers, don't you
see?"

"Yes; but do you think mother would allow us to go alone?"

"She lets us go about the village by ourselves, and sometimes we're
away hours. Oh, Jack, let's go alone! Fancy how jolly it would be!
We would play that we were in a foreign country, where no one but
savages had ever been before! Oh, it would be splendid!"

Jack agreed that it would. There was a charming novelty in the idea,
which was very alluring.

"If we told your mother where we were going, if she did not go
herself she might want to send Jane," Theodore continued; "and you
know how fussy Jane is. She wouldn't let us out of her sight; and we
couldn't pretend we were explorers if she was there. No, we won't
tell any one about the Hermit's Cave, and one of these days
we'll walk there by ourselves. Mind, Jack, it's a secret, and you'll
be a horrid sneak if you tell."

"Of course I won't, if you don't wish me to," Jack returned, a little
indignant at his stepbrother's tone. "You know I'm not a sneak. Only,
I don't feel sure that mother would like—"

"Oh, Jack, you talk like a baby!" Theodore interrupted crossly.
"Perhaps you're afraid to walk so far on the moors without some one
to look after you. Well, if you want a nurse, of course that puts
a stop to our planning any fun together. I shall go to the Hermit's
Cave alone; and if you tell your mother or any one else about it,
I'll never forgive you!"

"Oh, Theo, how can you be so nasty?" Jack cried, looking with
reproachful eyes at his stepbrother, whose face was flushed and
angry. "Do promise me you won't go alone!"

"Then will you go with me?" Theodore demanded.

"Yes, yes."

"Very well; and you promise not to mention the Hermit's Cave to
any one?"

"I promise."

"That's right. You're a brick, Jack!"

Jack shook his head. He was not very pleased with Theodore
for suggesting he wanted a nurse to look after him, and was therefore
disinclined to talk; so the short remaining distance to the farm was
walked in silence.

The boys found Mrs. Barton on the look-out for them; and in answer
to her question as to where they had been, they gave her an account
of their conversation with Seth Stanley, only abstaining from mention
of the Hermit's Cave.

"He is such a nice man," Theodore said in conclusion; "much nicer
than our blacksmith at home!"

"I should not allow either of you to have anything to do with him
if he was not," Mrs. Barton told them. "You know your father
disapproves of the Blakes—both father and son. I will ask him what he
thinks of this Seth Stanley, and hear what he has to say."

"I'm sure he's a good man, mother," Jack replied earnestly.

"I daresay he is, my dear. I think he must be, judging from what you
have said. I saw him standing in his doorway when I passed there the
other day, and I thought he looked an ideal village blacksmith."



CHAPTER XIV.

THEODORE HAS HIS OWN WAY.

"Do you know the Naraton blacksmith?" Mrs. Barton enquired of her
husband, the morning following that on which the boys had spent
an hour in Seth Stanley's company.

"Yes," he replied; "but why do you ask? He is a powerful-looking
fellow, with a dark, grave face. I am informed he is as honest as the
day—a somewhat unusual characteristic for one of his class. He is
a gipsy."

"So Theodore and Jack said. They held quite a long conversation with
him yesterday, during which he seems to have related his family
history to them," and Mrs. Barton repeated all the boys had told her.

Her husband listened with interest, and said he believed it was
perfectly true that Seth Stanley's father had been a convict, who had
died at Princetown Prison. Every one spoke well of the blacksmith,
though some said he had a religious mania. On hearing that
Mrs. Barton smiled involuntarily.

"What is the meaning of that smile, Mary?" her husband asked.
"What are you thinking."

"That people are always ready to call those they cannot understand
a little mad," she responded. "You know St. Paul had to hear the same
thing said about him. You remember the remark of Festus: 'Paul, thou
art beside thyself; much learning doth make thee mad.' I daresay the
blacksmith is no more mad than St. Paul was."

"I think you are very likely right. Anyway, I have not the least
objection to the boys talking to him if they please; they will hear
nothing wrong from his lips, of that I am certain."

Mrs. Barton was perfectly satisfied after that, and told Theodore and
Jack that her husband had a very high opinion of the blacksmith,
believing him to be a good, honest man.

For several days Theodore never mentioned the Hermit's Cave, and Jack
refrained from reminding him of it, thinking that perhaps, on further
consideration, his stepbrother might have come to the conclusion
to let the proposed expedition drop. But he was wrong. Theodore still
meant to go. He was merely waiting for settled weather, for it had
been very showery during the past few days.

One morning when the boys were getting up, Theodore, looking out of
the window, saw that the sky was cloudless and a faint blue mist hung
over the hills—the promise of a fine day.

"I think the weather looks more settled, don't you, Jack?"
he questioned eagerly.

"Yes," Jack assented. "Mr. Fry said last night he thought we were
going to have a change, because the distant Tors looked so far away—
that shows fine weather, he says. When you come to think of it,
we have been able to see a long way off lately."

"So we have. I remember father pointing out the cattle on the sides
of the hills, and he said they were miles and miles from us really.
Look, Jack, you can hardly see more than a short way to-day."

Jack joined his brother at the window, and gazed upon the beautiful
scene that stretched before his eyes—the little village near by,
with its old grey church, and beyond, the wide ranges of the hills,
with their Tors composed of granite on the crests of the broad
moorland. The veil of soft blue mist was rising slowly, and leaving
the overlooking hills bathed in dazzling sunshine.

"Oh, Theo!" cried Jack softly, "isn't it lovely? What does it remind
you of?"

"It doesn't remind me of anything," said Theodore, in matter-of-fact
tones; "but it is fine, isn't it? How sweet and fresh the air is,"
he added, leaning out of the window which he had opened wide, and
sniffing appreciatively.

"But doesn't the sight of the hills remind you of a verse in the
Psalms?"

"No. What verse do you mean?"

"This one: I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence
cometh my help."

"Oh, yes! of course."

Theodore looked at his stepbrother in an absentminded manner,
as though his thoughts were far away, which they actually were.

"What are you thinking about?" Jack enquired, noting the other's
abstraction.

"About the Hermit's Cave. It looks a good distance away to-day,
but it's only about four miles. I asked Seth Stanley how far it was,
and he told me. He said he had often walked there, and it never took
him more than an hour and a half, although it's a rough journey.
You keep on the main road for a bit, and then turn off to the right.
There's no real road leading up the hill, only a little path, and
it's very rugged on account of the granite; but Seth says, if you fix
your eyes on the Tor and make for it as straight as a crow flies,
you can't go far wrong. If the weather is really settled, we ought
to go some day soon."

"Four miles is a long way, isn't it, Theo?"

"Oh, no! At least it's a good walk, of course; but we shall be able
to have a nice rest when we get to the Hermit's Cave, before
returning home. I've planned everything. If we start early in the
afternoon, we shall be home long before dark."

"Are you sure?"

"Oh, yes; quite sure!" Theodore returned in a sanguine tone. "If Seth
Stanley takes an hour and a half to walk there, we shall do it easily
in about two hours, have a good while at the Cave, and walk home
quietly after tea. We'll tell Mrs. Fry we're going to have a picnic
to ourselves, and get her to give us some cake to put in our pockets.
But we shall have to wait for an opportunity of going, when the
others are out of the way."

"I heard father tell mother he wanted to drive her to Dartmeet
the first fine afternoon," Jack said, entering into his stepbrother's
plan, though with some doubts in his mind as to its being quite
right; "we might go then. But how about Jane? If mother's away,
she'll be sure to want to keep us near her."

"Oh, we'll manage old Jane!" Theodore cried lightheartedly, delighted
to find Jack was not going to raise any objections. "You leave her
to me."

Whilst they were at breakfast that morning, Mr. Barton spoke of the
proposed drive to Dartmeet, saying that Mr. Fry had kindly
volunteered to lend Boxer and the gig for the occasion.

"So if the weather remains fine, as I believe it will, we'll go
to-morrow, Mary," he said to his wife. "You and I will have a quiet
picnic by ourselves."

"That will be very nice," Mrs. Barton replied, smiling. Then her eyes
met Theodore's, fixed upon her with a look of eager anxiety which she
failed to understand, but fancied that perhaps he was disappointed
at the idea of having to remain at home; and her kind heart prompted
her to turn to her husband and ask, "How about the boys?"

"Oh, they will be all right, Mary!" he answered promptly. "They can't
come to any harm here."

"No; but the gig is so roomy, don't you think—"

"I don't want to go to Dartmeet," Theodore interrupted hastily,
turning very red.

"Nor do I," Jack added, flushing also, and carefully avoiding
his mother's eyes.

"That's all right, then," Mr. Barton remarked easily. "The gig is
certainly a large one, and Boxer is a powerful horse; but it would be
a crush if we took you boys with us."

The following day was beautifully fine; and after an early dinner,
Mr. and Mrs. Barton started for their drive. The boys watched the
departure, and as soon as the gig was out of sight, looked at each
other with meaning smiles.

"We ought to get away as soon as we possibly can," Theodore said,
"but we must find out what Jane means to do."

"She's in her own room sewing now," Jack returned, "because as I came
downstairs the door was ajar, and I saw her. Don't you think we'd
better slip off without letting her know?"

"No," Theodore replied decidedly, after a moment's reflection;
"you wait for me here, and I'll go and speak to her."

Theodore accordingly ran upstairs, calling upon Jane, who answered
him from her bedroom, telling him to come in. She was seated nearing
the window, engaged in darning stockings. "What a deal of work
you and Master Jack make for me!" she exclaimed, indicating a great
hole in the stocking she had pulled over her left hand, and looking
good-humouredly at her little master.

"I am very sorry, Jane," he responded, with unusual meekness in his
tone, "but things wear out very quickly, don't they?"

"I should think they do, especially when they belong to someone who's
always climbing trees, or crawling on his hands and knees up hedges,
or falling into ditches," she reminded him, casting an affectionate
glance at the little figure now hovering around her dressing-table.
"What are you doing, Master Theodore?" she asked suspiciously.

"Oh, nothing," he answered evasively, which was not true, for,
without being seen, he had managed to convey a box of matches
from the dressing-table to the pocket of his trousers. "I came
to know what you intend to do this afternoon, Jane," he added.
"Are you going out?"

"I'll take you and Master Jack for a nice long walk presently, but I
must finish these stockings first. You can wait for me in the
parlour," she told him.

"Will you be long?" Theodore asked, feeling for the first time
a little hypocritical as he put the question.

"Oh, about half an hour."

"Very well."

Theodore retired, closing the door gently behind him. Then he rushed
downstairs and joined Jack, who was waiting for him, looking
decidedly uneasy, having been thinking matters over.

"It's all right," Theodore told him, reassuringly. "She won't be
ready to go out for half an hour and by that time we shall have gone
a good way. Come and let us ask Mrs. Fry to give us some cake to put
in our pockets."

"But won't Jane wonder where we are?"

"Of course she will."

"Perhaps she'll be angry."

"I daresay."

"Oh, Theo, ought we to do it, do you think?" Jack asked in a troubled
tone.

"You're surely not going to cry off now!" Theodore exclaimed
in disgust, his eyes sparkling with anger.

"No, no. But I thought Jane might be frightened when she found us
gone, and—and—" Jack paused, stammering and flushing beneath his
stepbrother's scornful look.

"And—and—," Theodore mimicked impatiently. "What a coward you are.
Look here, Jack, do you mean to go with me, or don't you?"

"Oh, yes, yes, Theo," the other answered quickly, "I do."

"Because if you don't want to come, say so and stay at home.
Don't come and then say I made you."

"Of course I shouldn't do that. I—I want to go with you. I do
really."

"Very well. We must start as soon as ever we can. Come along."

Theodore led the way to the kitchen, and from thence into the dairy,
where they found Mrs. Fry skimming the cream from a pan of milk.

"Well, my dears," she said, turning at the sound of their footsteps
on the slated floor; "so you've not gone to Dartmeet?"

"No, Mrs. Fry," Theodore returned, "but Jack and I are going to have
a little picnic by ourselves, and we thought perhaps you would be so
kind as to let us have some cake to take with us."

"To be sure," the good woman responded briskly; "you had an early
dinner, and will be hungry long before tea-time I've no doubt.
But you must wait whilst I finish taking the cream from this pan
of milk. I don't suppose you're in a hurry."

The boys could not contradict her, so there was no alternative but to
stand quietly by until she had finished her task. Then they returned
with her to the kitchen, where she produced a large, home-made cake
from a cupboard, and cutting off two substantial hunches, wrapped
them in paper, and handed one to each boy. They thanked her
gratefully, and, slipping out of the back door, made their way across
the yard, where they encountered the farmer with Help at his heels
as usual. The boys hurried past him with a few words to the effect
that they were starting for a long walk. Mr. Fry stopped, and stared
after them, wondering why they were in such a hurry, and where they
were going.

"The half hour must be nearly up," Theodore said, glancing over his
shoulder nervously, as though he expected to see someone coming
to stop them, as he closed the yard gate after following Jack into
the road. "Jane's window is at the other side of the house, luckily.
She won't catch us now."

"No," Jack agreed, rather breathlessly. "I don't think we need walk
quite so fast."

Accordingly they slackened their pace, and proceeded at a more
moderate rate. Their spirits rose as they left Blackburn Farm further
behind them, and realised that there was now no chance of their being
stopped. The afternoon was before them to spend as it suited their
pleasure; and with the grey-topped Tor in the distance as the goal
of their ambition, they took the road with merry hearts, determined
to find and explore the Hermit's Cave.



CHAPTER XV.

ON THE MOORS.

AT first the boys kept to the main road, the hedges of which were
decked with primroses intermingled with clumps of wild hyacinths—
the bluebells of Devon; and myriads of scentless dog-violets, blooming
amid moss which spread luxuriantly everywhere, as a tender green
background for ferns and flowers. It was one of those days when the
fresh beauty of spring-time yet lingered, though summer was near
at hand. The air was fragrant with the scent of newly-turned earth,
mingling with the delicate perfumes of primroses and hyacinths, and
the whole world was full of budding life.

The boys had soon to leave the road for a narrow path, which led off
to the right, and presently they were on the desolate moor, away from
the green hedgerows. There were no flowers now but the yellow gorse,
and no moss but the hoary lichen which clung to the granite stones
and boulders, around which they picked their way. The heather was
springing freshly at the roots beneath the dead brown crop of the
preceding year.

"How hot it is!" Jack cried. "I wish there was a little shade! Oh,
Theo, listen to that lark!"

Both boys paused, and gazed upwards into the cloudless blue sky,
trying to discern the little songster as it carolled forth its glad
melody, so full of joy, as though in thanks to the Creator for the
gift of life.

"I can't see it! The sun dazzles my eyes!" Theodore said. "Oh, yes!
there it is, ever so high up!"

"Yes, I see it!" Jack exclaimed delightedly. "It seems to be going
higher and higher, right up to heaven almost! No, it is coming down!"

The glorious voice ceased as the lark fluttered gently down to the
earth.

"I expect it has a nest somewhere in the heather," Theodore remarked.
"Father says larks always build on the ground. Once I heard him
repeat a piece of poetry about the lark, but I forget it. I never
can remember poetry!"

"Wasn't it: 'Hark the lark at heaven's gate sings'?" Jack enquired;
then, as Theodore nodded assent, he continued: "I was thinking
of that when I saw it was right up to heaven almost. I wonder what
its song means, Theo? Isn't it wonderful, a small bird like that
should have such a wonderful voice? I expect God likes to hear it
sing!"

Theodore glanced at his stepbrother's bright face, and laughed
good-humouredly. Jack had such queer ideas he thought.

"Seth Stanley said the other day he was sure God liked everyone to be
happy," Jack proceeded eagerly, "and didn't want anyone to be
miserable; but sometimes even good people were melancholy, and he
supposed God made them so, like the owls who hate the sunshine.
I would rather be a singing-bird than an owl, I'm sure; though Seth
thinks God cares for both alike. What do you think, Theo?"

"Oh, I don't know anything about it, Jack! You're awfully odd,
you know, and so is Seth Stanley. Come along, we mustn't dawdle,
for we are not nearly at the Hermit's Cave yet."

The path now began to lead upwards towards the Tor, which they were
approaching by slow degrees. Jack's footsteps lagged somewhat, and at
length he suggested a rest by the way. Theodore demurred at first,
for he was eager to reach their destination; but seeing his
stepbrother was really tired he gave in; and they sat down on the
heather with their backs resting against a block of granite.

"Suppose we eat some of our cake?" Theodore suggested; "I'm as hungry
as a hunter; aren't you, Jack?"

"I think I'm more thirsty than hungry," Jack said; "I wish there was
some water near!"

"But there isn't! We're miles away from the Dart, and the further up
we go the further we shall be from getting anything to drink."

"Never mind!" Jack replied cheerfully. "I wonder what that old hermit
did for water?"

"I'm sure I can't say. I wish I had thought of bringing some in a
bottle, but it would have been a nuisance to carry. I expect
explorers have to go for days and days without water, so we must do
the same. Do try to eat some cake."

"Oh, yes, I will," Jack returned.

"Break it in half," Theodore advised, "and we'll eat a bit each,
and keep the rest till by-and-bye."

This they did. The fresh moorland air had sharpened their appetites,
and they found Mrs. Fry's home-made cake excellent. Theodore could
have eaten the whole of his slice, but he knew he would be hungrier
later on, so he carefully wrapped up the remaining half, and restored
it to his pocket.

"Look here," said Theodore, "we had better move on."

"Let us stay here a little longer," Jack said pleadingly; "there's no
hurry, is there?"

"Oh, no!" Theodore answered; "there's plenty of time. I wish we had
a watch, though!"

"Mr. Fry says he can tell the time by the sun," Jack remarked;
"he says it's better than any watch, because you can depend upon it.
But you are going to have a watch soon, aren't you, Theo?"

"Yes; father said he'd give me one on my next birthday. I should not
be surprised if he gave you one too."

"Oh, do you think he will?" Jack asked, flushing with delight at the
idea. "But no," he added, his face falling, "that is not likely."

"Why not? Why shouldn't you have one as well as me?" Theodore
enquired in surprise. "You would like a watch of your own, wouldn't
you?"

"Yes; but you and I are different. You are father's real son, Theo,
and I'm not."

"Oh, is that what you mean? Why, father thinks a lot of you, Jack;
he's awfully fond of you! And we're just like real brothers,
aren't we?"

"Oh, yes," Jack replied, smiling contentedly.

"I want you always to have the same as me," Theodore continued,
earnestly. "I shall tell father so; he will understand. I shouldn't
care for a watch unless you had one, too."

Theodore spoke truly, for never since he had first met his
stepbrother had he experienced the least jealousy on his account.
It had been so impossible to be jealous of the little lame invalid,
who had appealed to the pity and generosity of his chivalrous heart;
and by the time Jack had made a recovery, the two boys had become
deeply and sincerely attached to each other, and nothing had occurred
to interfere with their mutual love.

Theodore rarely spoke much of Mrs. Barton to Jack, but Jack was fully
aware that his stepbrother felt a sense of restraint in his mother's
presence, and was never quite the same happy, careless boy when she
was near. This surprised, as well as grieved him, but he had never
mentioned the subject to Theodore, dimly realising that he was
powerless to improve matters. Jack loved his mother dearly, and he
could not understand why Theodore should not too.

[Illustration: They had sometimes to go on their hands and knees.]

"We must really get on," Theodore said at length, after they had
rested themselves for a considerable time, idly watching a few
shaggy-maned ponies at a little distance, too timid to come near the
intruders.

So the boys rose, and proceeded on their way, which became rougher
and steeper the higher they climbed. They had sometimes to go on
their hands and knees, and Theodore laughed merrily, wondering what
Jane would say could she see them.

It was fine fun though! They thoroughly enjoyed the difficulties
to be overcome, for it was easy to imagine themselves explorers in a
foreign country. After leaving Mr. Fry in the farmyard they had not
met a living soul, or passed a human habitation, though they had
occasionally caught a glimpse of a lonely cottage or farm-house
on the slope of a distant hill.

The top of the Tor was reached at last, and both boys flung
themselves on the hard ground to regain their breath. Jack was
looking utterly done up, and he held his hand to his side.

"What's the matter?" Theodore asked, with a slight feeling of alarm.
"You are not ill, are you, old fellow?"

"No, Theo; I've got a stitch in my side though."

"Oh, that will soon pass. That's nothing. Keep still, and you'll be
all right in a few minutes."

Jack took his stepbrother's advice. Very soon he felt better, but he
still looked pale. "My legs shake so," he explained in an apologetic
tone. "What a long way we have come. Aren't you tired?"

"Not in the least. Don't you think you had better stay here and rest
whilst I go and find the Hermit's Cave?" Theodore suggested.

"Oh, no, no! I want to go with you. Don't leave me here. I'm all
right now."

"Let me see. Seth Stanley said the cave was on the north side of the
Tor," Theodore said reflectively; "now, which side is that,
I wonder?"

"I'm sure I don't know. The sun sets in the west; we ought to be able
to tell by that."

"But the sun is not setting yet. Still, the cave can't be on the
sunny side. That's certain. Let us try this way."

They set to work, searching amongst the boulders of granite, but it
was a long time before they could find any aperture which looked like
the entrance to a cave. At last, when they feared their quest was in
vain, and were almost in despair, Theodore gave an exultant cry.
He had discovered a hole between two blocks of granite, and called to
Jack to come and look.

"Yes, this must be it," Jack said, excitedly, "but I can't see
anything inside, Theo. Do you mean to go in?"

"Of course I do."

Theodore proceeded to pull an end of candle, about two inches
in length, and the box of wax matches he had purloined from Jane's
dressing-table, from the depths of his trousers' pockets.

"There!" he cried, triumphantly, as he struck a light and lit
the candle, which had become rather soft and bent.

"You think of everything, Theo," Jack exclaimed, admiringly.
"Shall we have to get into the cave through that hole? It's not big
enough."

"Oh, yes, it is; only we must crawl in. I'll go first, and you
follow. You aren't afraid, are you?"

"Oh, no!"

Theodore went down on his knees, and holding the lighted candle
in one hand, and feeling his way with the other, he disappeared
through the opening. A minute later Jack heard him utter an
exclamation of vexation and dismay; but he was reassured by the sound
of his stepbrother's voice saying:

"The candle's gone out; I'll light it again! Wait a minute, Jack.
There's plenty of room in here. Now then, come along."

With some misgivings Jack crawled through the opening. As he advanced
cautiously, there was more space, and when he reached Theodore's side
he found himself in a cave about six feet in height, and large enough
to hold several people comfortably. Theodore had successfully relit
his candle, and by its feeble light they examined the place,
afterwards sitting down on the stony floor side by side to talk
matters over.

"This is something like an adventure," Theodore commenced. "Aren't
you glad you came, Jack?"

"Yes," Jack replied, pleased with the novelty of the situation,
his misgivings entirely gone. "I never saw a cave before; did you?"

"Never. Fancy that old hermit living here by himself! I wonder what
made him do it!"

"I don't know. If he was a very good man, perhaps he didn't feel
lonely because he knew God was with him. But oh, Theo, I couldn't
bear to stay here! could you?"

"No; I should not like it by night," Theodore acknowledged, "though
it's very dry and comfortable. Don't you think we might have the rest
of our cake now?"

"I'm not hungry."

"Oh, nonsense; you must be. I'm simply starving."

But Jack's appetite had failed. He could not eat the remainder of his
cake; so when Theodore had disposed of his own share, he was
prevailed upon to finish his stepbrother's too.

They were both very thirsty; but it was no good dwelling on that
fact, as there was no water to be had anywhere. Even Theodore was a
little tired after their walk and climb, so that he was not as
restless and as eager to move about as usual.

They remained in the cave until their candle was nearly consumed;
then Jack suggested the advisability of making a start. He was the
first to crawl out of the cave, and Theodore followed immediately.

"How cold it is!" the latter exclaimed, as they rose to their feet
and looked around; "But there's no sun this side of the Tor—that's
how it is."

A faint blue mist was creeping over the hills. Jack noticed it
with an uneasy sensation; it looked so like the mist of evening.

"Let us go around to the sunny side," Theodore suggested, with a
shiver; "and then perhaps we had better start for home. It seems
later than I thought."

"But there is no sun," Jack said. "I think it must have set whilst we
were in the cave."

"Then we must go at once. Let me see—which way did we come up?"

"I—I don't know," Jack acknowledged falteringly.

The boys looked at each other in dismay. In which direction lay the
village of Naraton? Neither could tell. But Theodore did not want
to allow he was as ignorant as his companion. He peremptory bade
his stepbrother follow him, and started clambering down the Tor.
It had been a difficult climb up; it was far more difficult going
down. Once Jack stumbled, but though he cut his knees, he said it was
nothing, manfully shaking off the feeling of faintness which
threatened to overcome him. At last, however, he was obliged to ask
Theodore to allow him a few minutes to rest; and the two boys
sat down, whilst the faint blue mist crept nearer and nearer, and a
sense of despair took possession of each young heart.

"Oh, Jack!" said Theodore, with a catch in his breath which sounded
very like a sob, "what shall we do? We shall never get home?"

"Oh, yes, we shall," Jack replied reassuringly, "we'll start again
in a moment."

"But I don't know the way!" Theodore confessed.

"Nor do I! Shall we ask God to show it to us, Theo?"

"You ask Him, will you, old fellow?"

Jack readily complied. Kneeling on the heather, in spite of his
injured knees, he lifted up his voice in prayer to God for help and
guidance, whilst Theodore's heart echoed the petition, though his
lips uttered no sound. They did not seek to hide their true position
from each other any longer, but bravely faced the fact that they had
lost their way, and might very probably be obliged to spend the night
on the moor, whilst they were being sought for in vain.



CHAPTER XVI.

A TERRIBLE PLIGHT.

"OH, Jack, I wish we had never come," Theodore said dolefully, after
his stepbrother had concluded his simple prayer.

"It's no good wishing that now, Theo."

"Of course it's not; but—but it's all my fault."

"Oh, no, it's mine too."

"No," Theodore protested, "you did not really want to come, and I—I
am sorry I made you. I said you were a coward, but you're not, Jack.
It's I who am the coward!"

"Indeed, you're not; you've heaps of pluck. But don't you think
we ought to go on now? I'm ready."

"Very well. How dark it's getting. I do hope there'll be a moon
to-night. But no I remember it was new moon only a few days ago,
so if it does rise it won't give much light."

"Never mind. I daresay we shall find our way home somehow. If only we
could manage to get into the main road. I suppose if we were real
explorers we should not mind being lost. Oh, what's that?"

Both boys started in sudden fright as a dark object rushed past them
in the dim light. It was only a pony, however, and in spite of their
anxious position, they laughed the next moment at the shock
the harmless creature had given them.

"Do you remember what John Bawdon told us about the Dartmoor fogs?"
Theodore questioned presently, as they slowly descended the hill,
proceeding more carefully now.

"Yes; but I don't think this blue mist is a fog. Do you?"

"I don't know; perhaps not. I wonder if they're back from Dartmeet
yet? If so, don't you think father will come to look for us?"
Theodore suggested in a more hopeful tone.

"But he won't know where we are," Jack responded with a deep-drawn
sigh; "we did not tell anyone where we were going. He would never
think of looking for us so far away from home."

Theodore's only answer to this reasoning was a burst of tears.
Jack, greatly surprised and dismayed, tried in vain to comfort him.
He had seen Theodore cry many times from different causes, such as
disappointment or anger, but only on one occasion—that on which his
stepbrother had been proved instrumental in setting the hay-rick
on fire—had he heard him weep in such a heart-broken way as this.
The truth was, Theodore's conscience was pricking him sorely, and
telling him how wrongly he had acted in overcoming Jack's scruples,
and insisting on this expedition without the knowledge of those
set in authority over him.

His tears were not caused by fear, although he was naturally
very frightened at the prospect of a night on the moor, but rather
by remorse at the thought of his conduct. He determined that if they
were so fortunate as to reach home in safety, he would take all the
blame on his own shoulders. What would his stepmother say if any harm
came to her son? Did she not look to him who was so much
the stronger, to protect and care for the weaker boy?

"Oh, Theo, please don't cry like that," Jack implored in distressed
accents. "I can't bear to hear you."

"Oh, Jack, I'm very wicked!" Theodore replied, striving hard to check
his sobs. "I ought never to have brought you here. But I thought
we should have such a grand time, and so we did until we found out
we were lost. I suppose we took longer coming than we considered.
I did not think it would be dark so soon. Did you?"

"No. We stopped a great many times, but that was my fault,
not yours," Jack said, generously. "It's getting very dark, isn't it?
Keep near me, Theo; won't you? Don't let us lose each other."

"No, no, that would be worst of all. Are you very tired, Jack?"

"I am, rather; but I'm all right. Look!"

Jack clutched Theodore excitedly by the arm. It was now nearly dark,
so that distant objects were not discernible at all; but about
a hundred yards from the spot where the boys stood was a twinkling
light moving in the opposite direction.

"It's a man carrying a lantern!" Theodore cried joyfully. "Let us
shout to him to stop."

They both shouted until they were breathless, but the light continued
to move away from them. They followed as quickly as they could,
hand in hand, so as not to lose each other in the gloom. Suddenly the
light disappeared altogether, but the minute after it reappeared, and
the boys shouted afresh.

They had now reached the bottom of the hill where the ground was much
less uneven, but instead of being dry as it had been on the Tor,
it was so soppy in places that their feet were soon very wet, and
they shivered in the chill mist.

"Stop!" shouted Theodore, judging from the appearance of the light
that it was at a greater distance from them than when they first
saw it. "Oh, stop! Hi, you there! Hi! Oh, Jack, the man or whoever
it is must be as deaf as a post. Oh, look out!"

The last exclamation was called from Theodore, as Jack gave a
piercing scream on suddenly finding himself almost knee deep in mud.
Fortunate was ft for him that his stepbrother held his hand,
or otherwise he would certainly have brought his short career to a
close that night in a Dartmoor bog. As it was, Theodore, as soon as
he realised what was happening, tightened his hold on Jack, and with
a mighty effort succeeded in pulling him safely on firmer ground.
The two boys clung together in the darkness, whilst the misleading
light still flickered in the distance, now disappearing altogether,
now shining brighter than before.

"Hi, hi!" shouted Theodore once more.

"Oh, Theo," Jack said, with a shiver of horror, "I don't believe it's
a man with a lantern after all!"

"But what is it, Jack?" Theodore asked in bewilderment "There it is
again!"

"It must be a will-o'-the-wisp! Don't you know what that is? Mother
told me; but I never thought I should see one!"

"I don't understand! What is a will-o'-the-wisp? It's a real light,
I'm sure! Oh, Jack, you don't think we're pixie-led, do you?" And
Theodore, who had been hearing tales of pixies and their elfish
tricks from Mrs. Fry, who was fond of discoursing on moorland
folk-lore, gave a superstitious shudder.

"No, no! It's a real light which comes over marshy ground! Mother
said that people have often followed will-o'-the-wisps into bogs. Oh,
Theo, I think that's what we've been doing! Supposing you hadn't been
holding my hand just now, the bog would have sucked me in, and I
should never have been found. Oh, I wish we could get away from this
dreadful, dreadful place! Look, there are two lights! Oh, they must
be will-o'-the-wisps!"

It was perfectly true. A second light had appeared, but the boys had
no intention of following either now. Even in his terror, Theodore
was lost in amazement of the will-o'-the-wisps; but he realised that
they had made a great mistake in leaving the higher ground. Very
slowly and cautiously they retraced their footsteps, as they thought,
but actually they were moving in quite another direction. All at once
a sound broke upon their ears, which sent a thrill of hope through
each wildly beating heart. It was the cackling of a fowl, evidently
disturbed in its sleep by the sound of voices close at hand.

"We must be near a house," Jack breathed in tones of relief, "Oh, how
thankful I am!"

Groping their way in the darkness they discovered a hedge, and
presently found a small gate, through which they passed into a
kitchen-garden, in one corner of which was a little white-washed
cottage, with a fowl-house adjoining.

The boys felt that the worst of their troubles must now be over, but
what was their disappointment when they found the cottage door locked
against them, and no light in any of the rooms. The cottage had
evidently no one in it, for though they knocked and knocked, there
was no sound from within.

"What shall we do?" Jack asked despairingly. "Had we better wait
here, do you think?"

Theodore considered the matter in silence for a few minutes; then he
remarked that the cottage was probably near a road, and if they could
find it they would very likely come across someone.

"But don't let us go out the way we came," he said, "or perhaps we
shall get into boggy land again. There ought to be another way out of
the garden. Let me help you to climb up this hedge, Jack, and perhaps
you may be able to see what's outside."

Jack willingly agreed to this proposition, and, with Theodore's
assistance, succeeded in getting on the top of the hedge.
Immediately, he uttered a cry of relief.

"We've come to a road," he informed his stepbrother joyfully; "I can
see it quite plainly. I don't believe it's so dark as it was,
either!"

"A road!" Theodore exclaimed. "That's splendid! Wait! I'm going
to climb up to you! Yes, I think it is lighter; I believe the moon's
rising."

Theodore spoke almost cheerfully, for if there was a road he knew
it must lead somewhere; but the next moment he uttered a piercing
shriek, followed by a groan of agony.

"Theo, Theo, what is it?" Jack asked in a fever of terror. "What have
you done? Oh, Theo!"

But Theodore continued to groan without making any reply. Jack
scrambled down the hedge and felt his way to his stepbrother's side.
Then Theodore gasped:

"Don't touch me! Don't! don't!"

"Oh, tell me what is the matter!" Jack implored.

"I don't know! My left hand's caught in something! Oh, what shall
I do? It's like something biting me! Don't touch it! If I move
it's worse!"

"Let me see what it is!"

"You can't! Yes, take the matches from my pocket, and strike a light!
Oh, Jack, quickly, quickly!"

Jack obeyed as fast as his trembling fingers allow him. After several
vain attempts he succeeded in lighting a wax match, the sight which
met his eyes turned him sick with horror. Theodore was leaning
against the hedge with his left hand caught between the iron teeth
of a fox-gin. The boys saw it was hopeless their trying to open the
trap, for the least movement gave Theodore agonising pain. The iron
chain attached to the gin was firmly secured to a stake, and no
efforts on their part could unfasten it. Poor Theodore's hand
was bleeding, and the pain he was suffering was turning him faint
and dizzy.

"Oh, Jack!" he moaned, "what shall I do? Do you think I shall die?"

"No, no, Theo. Is it hurting you dreadfully?"

"Oh, yes!" Theodore assented with a bitter wail, which went to Jack's
heart. "Oh, I wish father was here! Oh, Jack, can't you ask God
to send some one to help us? And I'll ask Him too!"

Jack put his arms around his brother, whilst together in their
despair they called upon their Father in heaven. Theodore's voice
was growing weaker and weaker, but the feeling of faintness was
deadening all sensation of pain. He lay against the hedge motionless
when Jack removed his arms from around him, and gave no reply to his
stepbrother's frightened request that he would speak to him.

Dreadfully alarmed though he was, Jack did not lose his head, as many
boys would have done under the circumstances. There was still
one match remaining in the box. This he cautiously lit, and by its
feeble light saw that Theodore's eyes were closed, and his face
perfectly colourless. For one moment he believed his stepbrother
to be dead or dying; but the next, he thought that probably Theodore
had only fainted, which was indeed the case.

Jack was the owner of a brave heart, so that after a moment's
consideration he decided that he must go to seek assistance.
He pressed a gentle kiss on Theodore's cheek; and then clambering up
the hedge, dropped into the road on the other side. He did not know
which way to go; but with a silent prayer to God to direct his
footsteps, he turned to the right, and sped along as fast as his
trembling limbs would carry him. He had not gone far before he came
to two cross-roads, and after a slight hesitation, again took the
right. By that time he was obliged to slacken his speed, for he was
breathless and panting. He walked on slowly, holding his hand to his
side, and praying that some one might be sent to help him. It was
certainly growing lighter, he thought; and raising his eyes to the
sky, he saw that the moon had arisen—a thin, silver crescent, it was
true, but Jack felt less lonely at the sight.

How tired he was, and how heavy his feet seemed to be getting;
they dragged as he walked. Oh, would no one ever come! To think
of poor Theodore's pitiable plight all this while. Surely, soon he
must reach some house, where he would find people willing to return
with him to his stepbrother's assistance.

He struggled valiantly on, fighting against a strong desire to lie
down and rest. At last, just as he was thinking that he could go
no further, he heard sounds in the distance—carriage wheels, and the
barking of a dog. Two lights appeared, coming towards him on the
road, not will-o'-the-wisps this time, but the lamps of Mr. Fry's
gig; and it was Help who was barking, as he bounded along by Boxer's
side.

Jack exerted all his remaining strength, and shouted wildly; whilst
Help jumped around him in delight, and old Boxer slackened his speed.
The little boy ran forward as the gig stopped. He recognised the
voices of Mr. Fry and his stepfather, and heard the latter exclaim:
"Here they are, thank God!"

"Father—father!" Jack cried. "Oh, how glad I am!"

"Why, it's only one of them," Mr. Barton said in tones of misgiving,
as he hastily dismounted from the gig. "Jack, is it you?"

"Yes, father," the little boy answered. "Theodore is not here. He is
caught in a trap with such dreadful teeth! Oh, you must come quickly,
or I am afraid he will die! Oh, poor Theo!"

And overcome with fatigue and fright, Jack threw himself into his
stepfather's arms, and burst into a passion of tears and sobs.



CHAPTER XVII.

THEODORE'S DISAPPEARANCE.

WE must now revert to the time when, having finished her task
of darning the boys' stockings, Jane had gone downstairs, expecting
to have found Theodore and Jack waiting for her to take them for a
walk. At first she had believed they were on the premises, probably
hiding for fun; but on paying a visit to the kitchen, she had
discovered how they had begged cake of Mrs. Fry, saying they were
going to have a picnic by themselves, and how the farmer had seen
them hurrying away together. She had felt vexed, but had not been
in the least anxious on their account; and having realised the folly
of trying to find the truants, had spent the afternoon in her own
room, employed in needlework for herself. When tea-time had not
brought the boys back to the farm, however, she had been seriously
annoyed with them; but on Mr. and Mrs. Barton's return, at seven
o'clock, her annoyance had given place to direst alarm. In a few
words she explained that the boys had gone off without allowing her
to know their intentions, and that she had never suspected them of
any secret purpose until she found them missing. Mr. Barton had
immediately paid a visit to the village, but the boys had not been
seen there during that day. When darkness had come on, a search-party
had been organised, in which Seth Stanley and several others had
joined. The blacksmith, remembering the many questions Theodore had
put to him concerning the Hermit's Cave, had started to look for the
boys in that spot; whilst the other searchers had disappeared in
different directions; and Mr. Barton, in company with Mr. Fry, had
driven off to make enquiries in the neighbouring villages. The two
latter had been returning to Blackburn Farm after a fruitless quest,
when they had met little Jack, and had learned from him of Theodore's
terrible plight.

"The poor child must be caught in a fox-trap!" Mr. Barton exclaimed
in tones of dismay. "What do you think, Fry?" he asked his companion.

Mr. Fry agreed with Mr. Barton that what Jack called a "trap with
such dreadful teeth" would most probably be a fox-gin, and asked Jack
to explain where he had left his brother. The farmer knew the cottage
well, so the two men took Jack between them in the gig, and drove
away as fast as old Boxer could go.

Very few words were spoken, for Mr. Barton was far too concerned
about Theodore to ask Jack any questions. Once he said, "My poor boy!
my poor Theodore!" and Mr. Fry urged Boxer to increase his speed.

Jack had now somewhat regained his composure, so that when they
arrived at the little white-washed cottage he was able to point out
the spot where he had left Theodore. The two men got over the hedge,
leaving Jack in the gig, with Help in charge, for Boxer's master knew
he was to be trusted not to move a step until he returned to him.

Jack shook with suspense and suppressed excitement as he listened
to the voices of the others. How would they find Theodore? They were
longer than he expected; and presently, being unable to bear the
uncertainty any longer, he stood up in the gig to try and look over
the hedge; but he could only see the lantern which Mr. Fry was
carrying.

"Father!" he said nervously; "oh, father, do tell me Theodore is not
dead!"

"Theodore is not here," was the amazing answer, in his stepfather's
voice, which sounded full of bewilderment and anxiety.

"Oh, father, he must be! I am sure that is the right place!" cried
Jack, in an agony of terror. "Oh, he must be there!"

"No, he is not. We have found the gin, but some one has been
before us. Theodore is not here."

"Perhaps he opened the trap himself," Jack suggested, although he
knew that was most unlikely.

"Quite impossible," Mr. Barton responded. "Wait where you are, Jack.
We are going to make a thorough search."

Jack sat down again, his mind in a whirl of confusion. Theodore gone!
It was marvellous! At any rate, he had been released from the
dreadful trap; there was comfort to be found in that thought,
at least.

Meanwhile, Mr. Barton and the farmer were holding a consultation
on the other side of the hedge. They had found the cruel gin, which
had evidently been set to entrap a fox, should one be tempted
to visit the hen's roost, with its teeth wide apart, bearing witness
to the truth of Jack's story by the blood stains upon it. There were
marks of nailed boots near the place, and the hedge had been broken
down at the top, as though some heavy person had climbed it.
One thing was certain, that Theodore was nowhere near; therefore,
it seemed most probable that whoever had released him from the trap
had conveyed him away by road.

"The poor boy must have suffered agonies," Mr. Barton said in a
tremulous tone as he examined the gin. "What a ghastly instrument
of torture it is! I thought it was illegal to set these things?"

The farmer said it was, but added that it was nevertheless often done
by poultry-keepers.

The owner of the cottage was an old man, a bachelor, who lived alone—
Peter Blake by name. Mr. Fry knew him well, but could not imagine
why he was away from home, as he most evidently was.

"I do not see what more we can do," Mr. Barton said at length, with a
sigh. "Theodore could not have freed himself from the gin; so whoever
released him will doubtless see he has shelter for the night. Jack
saw no one from the time he left here till he met us; but some one
must have come by way of one of the cross-roads. That some one may
have been driving, too, and would most likely take Theodore to
Blackburn Farm. I think, Fry, our wisest plan will be to drive right
home. It may be we shall find news of Theodore awaiting our return,
even if he himself is not there. Let us start at once."

The farmer agreed to this plan. A few minutes later Boxer was again
trotting towards Blackburn Farm. No doubt the old horse thought
of his comfortable stable and supper of oats, for he exerted himself
to trot his fastest, as though he had not already had a long journey
that day.

Mr. Barton was intensely anxious about Theodore, though he tried
to reassure his little stepson, who was trembling with apprehension
of he knew not what.

"If only we could tell where he was," Jack whispered in a tearful
voice. "You don't think he can have wandered away, and got lost in a
bog, do you, father?"

"No, no; that is impossible! He has found a friend—or rather,
a friend has found him."

"I don't think God would let any one hurt Theo," Jack said earnestly,
"although He did let him get caught in that trap. Oh, I shall never
forget it!" And he hid his eyes against Mr. Barton's sleeve,
shuddering at the remembrance of Theodore's white face and closed
eyes. "Is mother very frightened?" he asked presently.

"Yes, and Jane too!" Mr. Barton answered. "What made you boys go off
without a word to any one, as you did?"

"We wanted to find the Hermit's Cave, and to pretend we were
explorers. Oh, it was fine fun until we got lost!" and he proceeded
to give an account of the afternoon and evening's adventures.

Mr. Barton's blood ran cold in his veins as the little boy spoke
of the will-o'-the-wisps and the bog, whilst Mr. Fry, who was usually
the most stolid of men, and rarely spoke except in response to a
question, was moved to remark that it was a wonder Jack was there
to tell the tale, seeing how near he must have been to one of the
most dangerous spots on Dartmoor, which had proved fatal to unwary
travellers on several occasions. Arrived at Blackburn Farm, they were
surrounded by an excited group before they had time to get down
from the gig.

"Here's Jack quite safe," Mr. Barton said immediately, "but have you
seen or heard anything of Theodore?"

"No." What did Mr. Barton mean? Was not Theodore with him? Had not
the boys been found together?

In a few brief words he explained that he had hoped to get news of
his little son on his return, for he had not found him. As he sprang
to the ground, and stood in the midst of the group, his wife came
forward, and caught him by the arm, imploring him to tell what had
happened, and why Theodore was not with him.

"Your boy is all right, Mary," he said gently. "See, there he is
in Mr. Fry's arms! He's a bit done up, but no harm has come to him."

As soon as the farmer placed Jack on the ground, he ran to his
mother's side. She turned to him and kissed him with tender
affection, thanking God in her heart for her darling's safety.

"Come into the house, Mary," Mr. Barton said, striving to speak
steadily, but his voice trembled in spite of his efforts to control
it, "and then I'll tell you all I know. I'm in great trouble about
Theodore!"

At that point Jane interposed. She had been standing by
in bewilderment, scarcely realising at first that her master had not
brought home Theodore as well as Jack; but now she came forward
and enquired, in tones of strong emotion:

"Isn't Master Theodore here?"

"No, Jane," Mr. Barton replied. "I hoped you might have had news
of him, but—"

"Where is he?" Jane cried wildly. "You don't mean to tell me
you've left him on the moor—to die maybe! Oh, sir, forgive me if I
forget myself, and speak as I ought not, but Master Theo's dearer
to me than my own life! It was I who took him from his mother's arms,
remember! And during the lonely years which followed, it was I
who loved and cared for him! Oh, if anything has happened to him—"

"Hush, Jane!" Mr. Barton interrupted in moved tones. "Come inside
with us, like a sensible woman, and we will talk matters over."

He led the way into the house, and into the parlour, where the
household assembled to know what had become of Theodore; and many
were the exclamations of dismay and consternation which greeted his
story of the boys' adventures. When he spoke of Theodore's accident,
Jane could not restrain her grief; she sobbed aloud, and would not be
comforted. But when Jack went to her, and throwing his arms around
her neck, mingled his tears with hers, she seemed to realise the
folly of her behaviour.

"Oh, Master Jack, how wet and muddy you are, and as white as a sheet,
I declare!" she cried, drying her streaming eyes. "I will put you
to bed at once!"

"Yes, please, do," Mrs. Barton said quickly, thinking Jane would be
better for being employed. "Go, Jack, like a good boy! Mrs. Fry will
make you a basin of bread and milk; and I will come to see you after
you are in bed."

Mrs. Fry nodded, and left the room to prepare Jack's supper, whilst
the boy pleaded hard not to be sent to bed yet.

"Oh, let me stay up till Theo comes!" he cried piteously. "Oh,
mother, do! Oh, father, ask her to let me stay up! I can't, I can't
go to bed before Theo comes!"

"You must, my dear," his mother told him gently, but firmly; and Jack
knew from the tone of her voice that she meant to be obeyed.

Mr. Barton had gone to the window, where he had drawn up the blind,
and was now gazing out into the darkness. Jack would have liked
to say good night to his stepfather, but his mother motioned to Jane
to take him away.

He went upstairs with a bursting heart, his eyes full of tears,
his breast heaving with sobs. Jane soon had him in bed; and when she
had induced him to swallow the hot bread and milk which Mrs. Fry
brought up to his room, she insisted on his closing his eyes, and
trying to sleep, whilst she went downstairs to hear if there was any
news of Theodore; and if not, what was being done to discover his
whereabouts. Presently Jack heard his mother's light footsteps in the
room. She came to him, and putting her arms around him, whispered
that he must not grieve, for she was sure God would send Theodore
back to them in safety; and meanwhile they must pray for him, and
hope for the best.

"You should not have made a secret of where you were going,"
she said, with tender reproach in her loving voice; "you must have
known it was not right! See what trouble you boys have brought about!
But I will not scold you now, for you must be almost worn out. Try to
sleep, my darling boy! I hope and believe that Theodore is in safety
somewhere! His father has gone out again in search of him—his poor
father!"

Mrs. Barton's voice broke at the remembrance of the white, shocked
look on her husband's face. She said good night to Jack, kissed him
once more, and turned to leave the room. As she passed Theodore's
empty bed, she paused and gently rearranged the pillows, the tears
which had been in her eyes all the while she had been talking
to Jack, rolling down her cheeks as she thought of the high-spirited
little lad, who was dearer to her than he himself guessed. Then she
quietly left the room, meeting Jane outside the door, who asked
if Jack was asleep yet.

"No," Mrs. Barton replied, "but I believe if we leave him alone
he soon will be. Oh, Jane, don't cry any more! Try to think as I do,
that God will take care of Theodore. I know how dearly you love him,
but don't give way, and anticipate all sorts of misfortunes befalling
him."

"When I think of the dear lamb by himself, with his hand in that gin,
and suffering horribly, as I know he did, it almost breaks my heart!"
Jane declared with a sob; "and now to think he can't be found!"

"But he will be," Mrs. Barton told her reassuringly; "I do really
believe he is in safety now!"

Jane sighed deeply, but she dried her tears. After her mistress had
gone downstairs, she stole softly into Jack's room, and found him
sleeping the heavy sleep of utter exhaustion. She dropped on her
knees by the bedside, and prayed fervently that God would restore her
other little charge to her care. She had forgotten that Theodore
had ever worried her, had ever been troublesome or disobedient;
she remembered only his good qualities, his brave spirit, his warm
loving heart; and it wrung her faithful soul to think of him
lost—disappeared in so short a while, and in such a mysterious way.

"God bless him! God keep him, and send him home again!" were the
words she kept repeating; and presently she arose from her knees,
and went downstairs, her spirit calmed, to await with her mistress
whatever news might come.



CHAPTER XVIII.

IN THE CARAVAN.

WHEN Mr. Barton started afresh in search of his little son it was
with a very heavy heart, for he imagined that there was small
likelihood of his gaining any information about Theodore that night;
but he was far too troubled and restless to remain inactive, and
therefore returned to the spot from which the boy had disappeared.

It was eleven o'clock when he left the farm, so that it was long past
midnight before he reached the white-washed cottage, and climbing the
hedge which divided the kitchen-garden from the road, sought the
place where the fox-gin still remained, as he and Mr. Fry had left it
more than two hours before. Once again he examined the iron trap, and
carefully searched the surrounding ground. He was moving away,
meaning to ascertain if the owner of the cottage had returned, when
the sound of footsteps in the road made him pause and listen.
A second later the footsteps stopped directly outside the hedge where
Mr. Barton stood.

"This is where I found him," said a strange voice. "'Tis cruel work
I call it, setting fox-gins."

"What! you found him in Peter Blake's garden!" cried another voice,
which fell familiarly on the listener's ears. "You don't say so!
Well, I always knew the old man was a cross-grained chap, and I've
heard him grumble about the foxes often enough; but I never thought
he did a little trapping on his own account."

"Then you didn't make the gin for him?" asked the strange voice.

"Not I. He'd know better than to ask me to do a job of that sort,
Moses."

Mr. Barton waited to hear no more, but hastily clambered over the
hedge, and sprang into the road close to the speakers, one of whom
was the Naraton blacksmith, and the other, as it afterwards
transpired, his brother, Moses Stanley.

"Mr. Barton!" cried Seth. "Is it you, sir?"

"Yes, it is I. I judge from your conversation that you have seen
my little son."

"He's safe enough, sir," was the reassuring answer. "My brother found
him with his hand caught in a fox-gin, and took him to his caravan,
where he is at this moment, not ten minutes' walk from this spot."

"Thank God!" Mr. Barton exclaimed fervently. "His stepbrother left
him, and went for assistance. Fortunately, Fry and I met him before
he had gone very far; but on reaching here, we found Theodore had
disappeared. You can imagine what my feelings have been!"

"Ah, that I can!" the blacksmith said, with a world of sympathy
in his voice. "But where is Jack?"

"We took him back to the farm, hoping to find news of Theodore on our
return."

"I've been miles and miles myself looking for the young gentleman,
and was going home in despair when I chanced upon the Fairies' Glen
and my brother's caravan. Chanced! No! there was no chance about it,
I reckon! 'Twas the hand of Providence which guided my steps! In the
Fairies' Glen I found Miriam—she's Moses' wife, sir—and the young
ones. Then as I was talking with them, hearing where they'd been
since I saw them last, home comes Moses carrying Master Theodore
in his arms. 'Hulloa, Moses,' said I, 'what have you got there?'
''Tis a youngster as my dog found in a fox-gin,' said Moses, 'and
he's a bit faint. Miriam must see to him.' I declare you could have
knocked me down with a feather!"

"Yes, yes!" cried Mr. Barton eagerly, failing to see the absurdity
of the blacksmith's last remark, as he would have done on any
ordinary occasion.

"Miriam, she put him in her own bed," the blacksmith proceeded, "and
after she had bathed and bound up his hand he soon came around.
We gave him some warm milk, and after that he soon closed his eyes,
and seemed more comfortable."

"Will you take me to him?" Mr. Barton asked turning to Moses, who had
not yet spoken. "I can never be sufficiently thankful to you for
having befriended my poor little boy, but having children of your own
you will understand my feelings, I am sure. Your caravan is near by?
Pray take me there at once!"

"Aye, that I will," was the response. "Seth, are you coming?"

"No," the blacksmith answered; "I can't do any good. You'd best
let Master Theodore bide where he is for the night, sir," he added,
addressing Mr. Barton.

"But I am afraid that may be inconvenient for your brother—"

"No," Moses answered promptly. "Miriam said he ought to be kept
quiet; and we've a tent as well as the caravan. Let the little
gentleman remain, if you please, sir."

"Thank you," Mr. Barton responded gratefully, "I shall be very glad
if you will keep him. Seth, if you are going home, would it be too
much to ask you, after all the trouble you've taken, to call at the
farm, and let them know there of my little boy's safety?"

"No, sir. I shall be only too pleased to be the bearer of such
good news!" was the cordial reply. "'All's well that ends well.'
Good night, sir! Good night, Moses!"

The blacksmith started homewards at a swinging pace, whistling as he
went, whilst Mr. Barton and his companion took the opposite
direction.

Mr. Barton saw that Moses was very like his brother in height and
build, but appeared a less talkative person, though he was evidently
deeply interested in Theodore's adventures, and remarked that he was
a fine little lad, and would like to deal himself with the man who
had set the fox-gin.

When they came to the cross-roads, the gipsy took the one leading
to the left—a narrow, rugged lane it was in reality, from which they
presently turned into a rough, granite-strewn field, at the lower end
of which was the Fairies' Glen, a natural hollow between high banks,
covered with mossy sward, dotted with primroses and dog-violets.

Mr. Barton had never been there before, and he uttered an exclamation
of surprise and admiration at the sight of the picturesque scene
which met his eyes in the faint moonlight. The caravan had been
placed at the entrance to the glen, slightly on one side, and close
by, a tent had been erected. A peat fire smouldered at a little
distance, over which a crock was suspended; whilst a grey horse was
tethered at the back of the caravan.

Moses pointed to the tent, explained that his children were sleeping
there to-night so as not to disturb the young gentleman, and said
that the handsome greyhound stretched at the entrance was the dog
that had been the real discoverer of Theodore; having found him, and
called his master's attention to him by his sharp barks. Mr. Barton
stooped down and patted the animals sleek head gratefully, whilst his
companion tapped at the door of the caravan.

"Who's there?" asked as soft voice in a whisper. "Is it you, Moses?"

"Yes, Miriam. I've brought the little gentleman's father."

The door opened, and a dark, handsome young woman appeared at the top
of the steps of the caravan. She was clad in a bright blue skirt,
a scarlet bodice, and wore a gaudy amber-coloured neckerchief tied
loosely around her throat.

"I'm glad the gentleman's come," she said simply, "for the poor
little lad has become very restless, and I've had great difficulty
in quieting him. Please to come in, sir!"

Mr. Barton obeyed with alacrity, for he was keenly anxious to see
Theodore, to judge for himself how he was. He had never been inside
a gipsy's caravan before, so he was surprised to find everything
very neat and comfortable, and scrupulously clean; but when he saw
Theodore on his hostess' bed he forgot all else, and hastened to his
side.

"Oh, Theodore, thank God I have found you at last!" he exclaimed
in tones of glad relief as he bent over his little son.

Theodore was looking flushed, and his eyes shone with unnatural
brightness as he moved his head uneasily from side to side on the
pillow. He met his father's glance with one full of dismay and
terror.

"Oh, father!" he gasped. "Don't, don't be angry with me!"

"I am not angry, Theodore," Mr. Barton said, pressing a kiss on the
boy's hot brow, and taking his uninjured hand. "Try not to excite
yourself. Don't think of what you've gone through more than you can
possibly help, for it's all over now."

"But Jack!" Theodore cried wildly. "Oh, father, he is lost on the
moor."

"No, dear Theodore, he is not," was the reassuring answer. "He is
at Blackburn Farm, and in bed and asleep by this time, I do not
doubt. You need not trouble about Jack."

An expression of intense relief crossed Theodore's face. "I don't
understand," he said feebly. "I thought—I feel so queer—I suppose
it must have been a dream, but I thought Jack had fallen into a bog."

"No, no; you managed to get caught in a fox-gin though, and hurt your
poor hand. See, it is bandaged. But Jack is perfectly safe and
sound."

"Really and truly?" Theodore asked, wistfully.

"Really and truly," his father answered, earnestly. "I don't believe
I ought to let you talk. Are you comfortable? I think you'll have
to spend the night here—if you will be so good as to let him remain,"
Mr. Barton added, turning to Miriam, who was standing by.

"The little gentleman is welcome," she replied with that simple
courtesy which is so often an attribute of the gipsy race.

"She has been very kind," Theodore told his father. "I think she is
a very grand person although she is a gipsy. She says her
great-great-grandfather was a king."

"I have been trying to amuse him, and keep his thoughts away from his
troubles," Miriam explained, overhearing Theodore's remark, whispered
though it was, a blush showing through her clear, dusky skin. "I fear
his hand gives him pain," she added, sympathetically.

"Yes, it does," Theodore acknowledged.

"It will soon heal," Miriam said, noting the anxiety on the father's
face; "I have some knowledge of wounds, and have cured worse hurts
than this by bathing with a simple preparation made from herbs.
I have dressed his hand carefully, and now that you have come and his
mind is more easy, I think he will sleep. You would like to stay with
him the night?"

"I should," Mr. Barton replied, hesitatingly, "but I fear I shall be
in the way, I—"

"No, no," she interrupted, hospitably, "we have a tent outside and my
husband and I will sleep with the children to-night. Please don't
think we mind. Here is milk if the little gentleman is thirsty, and
do not fail to call me for anything you want."

She smiled at Theodore, and withdrew. A minute later they heard her
voice talking to her husband outside, and then followed silence.

The inner division of the caravan where Theodore lay in bed was
lighted by a small lantern, which was suspended from the roof. By its
faint, yellow light Mr. Barton watched Theodore's uneasy movements
and flushed countenance with growing anxiety. He did not know that
his presence had a disturbing influence on his son, nor did he guess
the grief and remorse that was in Theodore's heart, until the silence
was broken by a sob, and Theodore's head suddenly disappeared beneath
the bedclothes.

Mr. Barton was stricken with astonishment. He hardly knew how to act
or what to say, being in ignorance of the cause of Theodore's grief.
But presently Theodore's head reappeared, and the little boy said
with an heroic effort to speak without crying,—

"It was all my fault. I know Jack won't say so, but it was. He didn't
want to go to the Hermit's Cave, but I made him; and if he had died
in a bog it would have been my fault, and his mother would have hated
me, and so would you, father! I—I never should have been happy any
more."

"What are you talking about, Theodore?" Mr. Barton questioned. "Come,
my boy, tell me all about it. You know it is not possible that I
could ever hate you, and as for my wife—why, she never hated anyone
in her life, I'm certain. Why should you think it? You are not fair
to her. I have often thought you must have been prejudiced against
her, but I don't wish you to tell me by whom," he said hastily. "When
I married her I hoped she would be a mother to you as I hoped to be a
father to her little son, but you would not allow her to love you—
from the first you were against her. She wanted to make up to you,
as far as lay in her power, for the loss you sustained when your own
dear mother died, but—"

"They said you would think more of Jack than of me," Theodore broke
in, "but I did not care. I was never jealous of Jack. I—I don't mind
if you do like him best. He's better than me."

"Oh, Theodore!" Mr. Barton exclaimed, greatly shocked, "you distress
me beyond measure. Jack is a gentle, winning little fellow, but you
are my own son—the dearest object I possess. Come, confide in me
the cause of your grief. What is it that is weighing upon your mind?"

Thus encouraged, Theodore gave an excited account of the way in which
he had overcome Jack's scruples, and induced him to visit the
Hermit's Cave. He did not spare himself, but took the entire blame
upon his own shoulders, at the same time begging his father to
forgive him, and imploring him to assure his stepmother that Jack was
not in fault.

"It was all my doing," he said in conclusion, looking wistfully
up into Mr. Barton's grave face. "I know I'm a great worry and
trouble—Jane says so often, but I never before tried to make Jack
do anything wrong."

"And I trust you never will again," his father returned, seriously.
"God, in His infinite mercy, saved you both from a horrible death
to-night, for if you had fallen into the bog—but there, I will not
contemplate that. Thank God, I have you still!"

All through the night Mr. Barton sat by the bedside, and, now that
Theodore had made his confession, his father's presence disturbed him
no longer, but rather gave him a sense of security, for presently
he fell asleep. His was an uneasy slumber, however, with disturbed
dreams, for he cried out constantly that Jack was lost, and started
up in bed on several occasions, shaking with fright, to be reassured
by his father's voice that all was well.

It was with a sense of relief that Mr. Barton at length saw through
the tiny window of the caravan that the dawn of another day was
breaking, and knew that his vigil was nearly at an end.



CHAPTER XIX.

EXPLANATIONS AND FORGIVENESS.

WORN out with fatigue as little Jack was, it was small wonder
he slept soundly the night following his harrowing experiences on the
moor, in spite of his deep concern about his stepbrother. He was
awakened by the sound of voices, and opened his eyes to see Jane
standing by his bedside with a tray containing his breakfast in her
hands, and his mother bending over him. With awakening thought came
remembrance of last night's adventures; and he started up in bed,
looking eagerly around for Theodore, an expression of distress and
sorrow on his countenance.

"Theodore is safe, my darling," Mrs. Barton said, as she kissed her
little son. "I will tell you where he is, and all I know about him,
whilst you eat your breakfast."

"And mind you eat all you can, Master Jack," Jane told him, "for you
are looking but poorly this morning. But there!" with an indignant
sniff, "'tis no wonder, I'm sure! I hope all that happened to you
yesterday will be a wholesome lesson to you, and Master Theodore
too."

Now that her mind was at rest concerning the safety of her little
master, Jane felt it would be a great relief to her feelings to give
the boys both a good scolding; and she had the satisfaction of seeing
a guilty flush rise to Jack's pale face before she left the room.

Alone with his mother, he soon learnt what had befallen his
stepbrother after he had left him; for the blacksmith, true to his
promise, had called at the farm ere he had returned to his home, and
had told all he knew concerning Theodore. It was now nine o'clock,
and further news was expected every minute; for Mrs. Barton rightly
guessed that her husband would bring Theodore back to the farm
as soon as possible.

At first Jack's mind had room for only one thought—his stepbrother's
safety. But as his mother talked to him, he saw that her eyes were
full of reproach, and his conscience told him the cause.

"Jack," she said at length, "you knew you and Theodore were acting
wrongly yesterday, did you not?"

"Yes," he acknowledged, hanging his head.

"It was very naughty of you, and very unkind to all of us!"

"We meant to be home before dark," Jack began, then added quickly,
"oh, mother, I knew all the time you wouldn't have let us go alone
if you'd known!"

"And you purposely kept Jane in the dark, too?"

"Yes."

"Oh, Jack!"

The sorrowful tone of his mother's voice cut Jack to the heart;
a great lump rose in his throat, and he restrained his tears with
an effort.

"I'm very sorry," he murmured; "and so is Theo—he told me he was!"

"You boys have made us very unhappy, and upset the whole
household—nay, more, the whole village!"

"I am very sorry," Jack repeated; "I am indeed! I hate to think
we have made you miserable, and given so much trouble to everybody.
We did not mean to get lost."

"Well, I will say no more about it, for I think you have had
punishment enough. But I hope you will never act so wrongly again."

"Never, never!" Jack cried. "Oh, mother, do please believe that!"

"I do believe it. When you say your prayers, do not forget to thank
God for His mercy in saving you from a horrible death last night.
Oh, my boy, shudder when I think what might have happened!"

A hot tear splashed down Jack's cheek, but he wiped it hastily away.
His mother saw that he was truly repentant, and said no more;
but before she left him she gave him a loving kiss, which he knew
expressed her full forgiveness.

His breakfast finished, Jack got up and proceeded to dress. He felt
very tired, but otherwise perfectly well. A long while he knelt
in prayer, for he had so much to thank God for this morning, and he
did not forget to humbly ask pardon for his wrong-doing. He realised
quite well that he ought not to have allowed Theodore to influence
him to visit the Hermit's Cave without Mr. and Mrs. Barton's
knowledge; but his fear of being thought a coward had made him fall
in with his stepbrother's plans. He had known it was wrong—there lay
the sin.

When Jack went downstairs he found a messenger had just arrived
to say that Mr. Barton and Theodore were coming; and presently
a caravan was seen entering the farmyard, drawn by a large grey
horse, followed by a group of dark, curly-haired gipsy children.
Moses Stanley walked at the horse's head, whilst his wife rode
in front of the caravan.

Neither Mr. Barton nor Theodore were visible until the caravan came
to a full stop in front of the door, and Moses let down the steps,
when the former appeared and smiled as he caught sight of his wife,
who with Jack and the rest of the household had come into the yard.

"How is Theodore?" Mrs. Barton asked, whilst Jane tried to peer
into the caravan.

"Not very bright, of course, Mary; but better than I expected
he would have been this morning," was the response.

"Well, Jack, are you all right?"

"Oh, yes, thank you, father!" the little boy answered.

"That's well. Stand back a minute, Jane. You shall see Theodore
in a minute."

Even as Mr. Barton spoke, Theodore appeared at his side, looking very
white and crestfallen.

Jane caught him in her arms, and bore him triumphantly into the
house, covering his face with kisses; which treatment secretly
irritated him greatly, for he felt his position anything
but dignified for a boy of his age.

In the parlour, Jane laid him on the sofa, and stood back herself
to allow Jack a few words with his stepbrother. But the boys had very
little to say to each other then. Jack merely enquired how Theodore
was feeling, and if his hand was sore; whilst Theodore murmured in a
husky voice:

"I'm all right, old fellow."

Mrs. Barton remained in the yard to speak a few words to Moses and
Miriam, and to learn that the gipsy family intended to encamp in one
of Mr. Fry's fields for a few days. When she entered the parlour with
her husband, Theodore glanced at her nervously. She spoke to him in
her usual kind and affectionate manner; but he could find no words
in response, and a little hurt, she left him to Jane's tender
mercies.

Mr. Barton had sent for a doctor to look at Theodore's hand. When he
arrived, much to every one's relief he made light of the case, and
said the wounds would soon heal; but added that the boy had had
a shock, and he must be kept quiet for a few days. He was to get up
late, go to rest early, and take life easily.

"Am I to have my breakfast in bed?" asked Theodore.

"Certainly," the doctor replied, laughing; "do so by all means,
if you wish."

Theodore smiled with gratification on hearing this; for he looked
upon being allowed to breakfast in bed as a great treat, having never
done so but on the very few occasions when he had had bad colds, and
Jane had indulged him.

He lay on the sofa all day, on the whole finding being an invalid not
an unpleasant experience, now that his hand was less painful. He told
Jack all about Miriam, and what a cosy home a caravan really was,
saying that he thought he would like to be a gipsy, and travel about
the country as he pleased.

During the day an unexpected visitor arrived at Blackburn Farm,
no other than Peter Blake, the owner of the white-washed cottage
and the fox-gin. He was terribly grieved at what had occurred,
he told Mr. Barton; he would not have had it happen for any amount
of money! He confessed he had set the gin because he was so
"worrited" with foxes—that was his only excuse. He hoped the young
gentleman was not seriously injured, and if Mr. Barton would refrain
from prosecuting him, he would faithfully promise never to set a trap
again. As there was no advantage to be gained by prosecuting the old
man, Mr. Barton relieved his mind on that score, and accepted his
promise. Peter Blake was profuse in his gratitude and thanks, as,
indeed, he had good cause to be. He explained his absence from home
on the preceding night by telling how he had gone to visit a sick
brother living in a neighbouring village, and had sat up with his
wife as she had had no one else at hand to assist her in the nursing.
When he had returned home early in the morning he had found his gin
unset and bloodstained, and the hedge trampled down. Later he had
learnt what had befallen Theodore on his premises, and had hastened
to Mr. Barton to express his regrets.

"I hope I have done right in letting the matter pass thus,"
Mr. Barton said to his wife when Peter Blake had gone, much relieved
at the knowledge that Theodore's hand was doing well, and with the
assurance that he would not be prosecuted, "but Fry tells me the old
man will have all the hunting folks in the county down on him
for having tried to entrap a fox, and I judged he would find that
punishment enough."

That same afternoon Mr. Barton asked Jack, who was hovering about his
stepbrother with tender solicitude, if he would like to pay the
gipsies' encampment a visit; and accordingly the two started off
together, leaving Theodore and Mrs. Barton alone. She moved her chair
close to the boy's sofa, and strove hard to amuse him, but it was
a thankless task, for Theodore was disinclined for conversation,
being secretly annoyed because Jack had left him.

"Shall I read to you?" Mrs. Barton asked, "or would you like me
to tell you a story?"

Theodore declared his head ached, and he wanted to be quiet.
On hearing this, his stepmother removed her chair to the opposite
side of the room, and took up some needlework. Theodore watched her
wistfully, regretting that he had driven her away. He thought her
face looked a little sad and pale, and once he fancied he heard her
sigh. She must have been very anxious about Jack last night,
he remembered, and he was conscious that he ought to exonerate
his stepbrother from blame in her sight.

"It was all my fault yesterday," he said, bluntly, "I mean that we
got lost. Did Jack tell you how I made him go?"

She put down her work, and glanced at him in surprise, shaking her
head.

"I told father all about it, and he forgave me," Theodore proceeded.
"I—I should like to tell you too."

"Yes?"

"If any harm had come to Jack it would have been my fault, because I
made him go with me, I did. He didn't want to go at all. So he never
told you? Well, he is a brick!" Theodore's tone was full
of admiration for his stepbrother. "I suppose he didn't want to get
me into a row," he continued, "but I hope you didn't scold him.
Oh, I don't know what I should have done if anything had happened
to Jack."

"Tell me all about it, Theodore," Mrs. Barton said, looking
mystified. "How did you make Jack go? Even if you did influence him
he was to blame all the same."

Theodore entered into an explanation, concealing nothing. When he
had finished his tale he said, dolefully, "Father thought you would
forgive me, but perhaps he didn't know."

"Oh, yes, yes; he was quite right. Say no more about it, Theodore.
God has given you boys back to us, and I don't believe you will ever
try to induce Jack to do wrong again."

"I never, never will," he declared, earnestly.

"Theodore," said Mrs. Barton, gently, "I am going to speak to you
as I speak to Jack, as though you were my own son, because I love you
dearly, and—"

"Do you really?" Theodore asked, his cheeks flushing, his eyes
shining brightly. "Do you really love me when I've been so naughty,
and made Jack naughty too?"

"Indeed, I do."

There was a struggle going on in the boy's heart at that moment
between a strong desire to respond to his stepmother's affection,
and the wilfulness and pride he had harboured so long.

"I—I don't deserve you should," he said, falteringly, "because I'm
not good like Jack. I should like to be, but I can't."

Mrs. Barton rose impulsively from her seat, and, crossing the room,
knelt down by Theodore's sofa, so that his face was on a level with
hers. There were tears in her soft, brown eyes—eyes so like her
little son's—and at the sight Theodore's mistrust of his stepmother
died for ever, and, flinging his uninjured arm around her neck,
he gave her the first kiss he had ever voluntarily bestowed upon her.

"I never really hated you," he whispered. "I only said it because
I was wicked; I often am, you know. But I mean to be better, and you
will help me, won't you, like you help Jack?"

"Oh, yes, yes; you are both my dear boys."

"And I—I will call you 'Mother,'" Theodore continued. "I don't think
she will mind—my real mother, I mean."

"No, no. I can never quite make up to you for her loss, my dear,
but I will do my best, so that some day I may be able to say to her,
'I did what I could to take your place.'"

This idea pleased Theodore. He remained very quiet for some minutes,
then he said, tremulously, "Do you know what I thought when Jack and
I were wandering about the moor last night? It was how you would hate
me if anything happened to Jack, and—and I knew I hadn't always been
nice to you, and I asked God to take care of Jack before me, because
I had made him come. Then I got caught in that dreadful gin, and when
I woke up in the caravan I couldn't think what had become of Jack,
and Seth didn't know, or Moses, or Miriam, or anyone. Oh, you can't
think how glad I felt when father came and told me Jack was all
right. Nothing seemed to matter after that. I think it was noble
of Jack not to tell how I made him go, and when I had been so nasty
to him too! I called him a coward, and said all sorts of disagreeable
things."

Theodore's face was full of excitement. His stepmother looked at him
a trifle anxiously. Rising to her feet she again drew a chair to the
side of the sofa, and, seating herself thereon, talked to him in a
soothing tone on different subjects till he grew more composed.

Presently Jane came to see how her little master was, but, finding
him deep in conversation with his stepmother, would have retired
without a word if Mrs. Barton had not stopped her.

"Jane," she said in her pleasant voice, "his father and I have
forgiven him the anxiety and trouble he caused us, and we hope you
will do the same."

"Yes, please, do, Jane," Theodore said, earnestly. "I am very, very
sorry. I suppose you found out I had taken the matches from your
dressing-table? I really don't know what we should have done without
them."

"Oh, that's what you were up to, was it?" Jane cried. "I found the
matches gone; I might have guessed you had them. Well, Master
Theodore, if you want my forgiveness you have it, though I do think
you treated me badly."

When Jack and his stepfather returned they found Theodore cheerful
and happy, with Mrs. Barton seated at his side, looking bright and
animated.

"Back already!" Theodore exclaimed in surprise.

"Why, Theo, we've been away two hours nearly," Jack cried. "What have
you been doing all the time? I suppose you've been talking?" he said,
dubiously.

Theodore nodded.

"Secrets?" asked Jack.

Again Theodore nodded, but this time he spoke as well. "Nothing to do
with anyone besides ourselves," he explained; then added, a little
shyly, "secrets between mother and me."



CHAPTER XX.

HOME AGAIN.

THEODORE'S hand was not long in healing. At the end of a week he was
able to dispense with the sling he had at first been obliged to wear,
and soon only the scars where the teeth of the gin had torn the skin,
remained to remind him of his accident.

Jack, although he had come off easier than his stepbrother, and had
been kept up by the strength of his excitement during the time
of Theodore's disappearance, and the day of his return to Blackburn
Farm, was so unwell on the following morning that he was forced to
remain in bed.

But after a few days' rest, Jack soon began to mend, so that by the
time Theodore's hand had healed he was almost himself again, and able
to join in his stepbrother's pursuits as before.

Moses Stanley and his family made a fortnight's sojourn at Naraton,
encamping, by Mr. Fry's kind permission, in a field close
to Blackburn Farm-house. Theodore and Jack paid several visits to the
encampment during the few last days the gipsies were there.

"I shall never forget how kind you were to me," Theodore told Miriam,
"and I think your caravan is the cosiest place I was ever in.
Why won't you stay here a little longer?"

But Miriam shook her head smilingly, and declared they must be moving
on; so one morning they took their departure early, Moses and Miriam
having been generously rewarded for their kindness to Theodore, who
parted from them with many protestations of goodwill and gratitude.

"Moses will never settle down as I've done," Seth Stanley informed
the boys when they called in to see him after his brother had gone;
"his wife loves a roving life too! I couldn't stand being pent-up
in a town myself, but there's breathing room on Dartmoor! If I ever
feel restless and unsettled I go for a good long walk, and come back
contented."

"Father says perhaps we may come here another year," Theodore
remarked after a few moments' silence; "I'm sure I hope we shall,
because I like Naraton so much, and we've made so many friends here—
you for one, Seth!"

"I'm pleased to hear you say so, sir!" the blacksmith responded.

"It has been very jolly at Blackburn Farm," Theodore continued, "and
we all feel quite sorry to think we're going home so soon."

When the day of departure came at last, the boys were quite
low-spirited at having to say goodbye to the inmates of the farm.
Theodore stole away to give a parting caress to the lamb—now grown
a fine sturdy animal—which had met with such careless treatment from
him at the beginning of its life. The little creature followed him,
bleating, to the door of the farm-house, where the carriage was
waiting. Then there was Help to be patted, and a few last words to be
spoken to the kindly, silent farmer, and his good-natured wife; but
at last they were off. A few minutes later they were being driven
around the Green, and the boys stood up in the carriage to wave their
hands to Seth Stanley, who from the door of his shop was watching
their departure.

"I hate good-byes!" Theodore exclaimed.

"So do I!" Jack echoed.

But after all, it was pleasant to be at home once more, as the
boys agreed the first night after their return to Afton Hall. The
following morning they were up early, and out in the garden retailing
their experiences to John Bawdon long before the rest of the
household had arisen. The old man lent a keenly interested ear
to their lively chatter; but he could not suppress an exclamation
of horror when Theodore showed the scars on his hand, and explained
the cause of their being there.

Then the boys had to examine their own little gardens, which John
Bawdon had been empowered to keep free from weeds during their
absence; and Jack, much to his delight, discovered a pink monthly
rose blooming on the bush in the middle of his flower-bed, which he
gathered and presented to his mother at the breakfast-table.

"I wonder if Aunt Selina and Aunt Penelope will be here to-day?"
Theodore said, addressing his father. "I expect Aunt Pen will be
fussing about our lessons as soon as she sees us."

"I think not," Mr. Barton replied. "I may as well tell you I mean
to get a tutor for you boys, to prepare you for a public school.
I have written to Aunt Penelope, and she owns she finds you rather
too great a responsibility to undertake your education any longer."

There was a short silence. The boys felt a little dismay at the
prospect of a tutor at first; but in a few moments Theodore's face
brightened.

"Yes, we ought to be taught by a man. We're too old for a governess
now. I shall soon be nine." And he fell to thinking of the watch
which his father had promised him on his next birthday, and of
the conversation he had had with Jack on the subject, that
never-to-be-forgotten day on the moor.

Later on, when he found himself alone with his father, he seized
the opportunity of speaking to him about the promised present.

"I should so like Jack to have a watch, too," he said wistfully.
"Do you think you could manage it, father?"

"I will see," Mr. Barton answered, smiling.

"Because," Theodore proceeded, "I want Jack to have one the same
as me, just as though we were real brothers!"

Mr. Barton looked at the bright face of his son, at the clear grey
eyes that met his so fearlessly, and his heart filled with tender
affection and fatherly pride.

"I will think about the matter," he said briefly; but Theodore
was perfectly satisfied.

And think about it Mr. Barton did, and consult his wife as well;
with the result that a few days later he called the boys into the
west parlour, and presented each with a serviceable watch, saying he
had decided to give them now, instead of waiting until Theodore's
birthday, which was not for another three months.

Needless to say, the boys were delighted; and still more so when
Mrs. Barton entered the room and gave each a pretty chain, attached
to which was a lucky sixpence. They could hardly find words
to express their thanks, so proud and excited were they.

"You will not have an excuse for being late at meal-times now,"
Mrs. Barton reminded them, as they examined their new treasures.

"No," Jack agreed, as he looked at his presents with admiring eyes.
"Oh, Theo, here are my initials on the back of my watch!"

"And here are mine—'T.B.,'" Theodore replied.

He had already opened the back of his watch, and was curiously
inspecting its works.

"Be careful, Theo," Jack said warningly. "I don't think you ought
to breathe into your watch,—ought he, mother?"

"No, I think not, my dear. By the way, I want to remind you boys
to be in good time for tea this afternoon, because your aunts are
coming."

Mrs. Barton received her guests in the west parlour, explaining that
she knew they would prefer that apartment to the large drawing-room.

"We generally have tea here," she said, "because it is so sunny
and pleasant at this hour of the day. Won't you take this easy chair,
Miss Selina?"

"No, thank you," was the reply, as Miss Selina selected a
straight-backed chair, on which she sat bolt upright, looking as
gaunt and stiff as usual. "I was never accustomed to loll when I was
young, and I don't mean to begin now I'm old."

Miss Penelope laughed as she accepted the seat which her sister
despised. She was looking brighter and more cheerful than she
generally did.

"We had a visit from the boys this morning," she told Mrs. Barton;
"they came to show their watches, and to bring us some flowers from
their own gardens."

"We did not fail to appreciate the kindly thoughts which evidently
prompted their gifts to us," Miss Selina remarked. "How well both
boys look! You know I am nothing if not outspoken, and I always speak
my mind. So I must tell you how much I consider Theodore has
improved. He was always a dear boy; but I can mark your influence
on him—I can indeed."

"It is most evident," Miss Penelope said; and she spoke cordially,
for she had long ceased to grudge Mrs. Barton her due. "We were very
pleased to hear how he spoke of you," she continued earnestly;
"he called you 'mother,' as though he was accustomed to do so, too."

"He always does now," Mrs. Barton responded, her face beaming with
happy smiles.

"Did I not say he would one day of his own free will?" Miss Selina
exclaimed heartily.

"You did indeed!"

Miss Penelope flushed, for she remembered the occasion well. She
recognised now how foolish and spiteful she had been, and was
honestly glad that Theodore was on good terms with his stepmother.
A few minutes later Mr. Barton came in, and was shortly followed
by the boys.

Tea was brought in, and they were all very merry and happy together.
Miss Selina asked Theodore how he had spent the afternoon, and he
informed her he had been gardening with John Bawdon. To-morrow he
and Jack intended going harvesting.

"Ah! you had better make the most of your freedom," Miss Penelope
said, with a smile, "for your tutor will not leave much spare time
on your hands."

"Oh, I daresay he'll give us holidays sometimes," the boy responded
cheerfully.

When the visitors left, Mr. Barton accompanied them to their home,
as was his custom on such occasions. Mrs. Barton and the boys
repaired to the garden, where Theodore drew his stepmother's
attention to the carnations which were coming into bloom. "John
Bawdon says they'll be a fine show in a week's time, please God,"
he told her.

He did not laugh now as he repeated the old man's favourite formula,
for he was learning to regard life from the point of view of those
who look to their Heavenly Father to perfect their imperfect works.
"See, mother, how the buds are all ready to burst. A little more
sunshine and they'll be in full bloom."

"Yes," she replied in an absentminded tone. "Theo," she said
suddenly, "do you remember the day I came to Afton Hall?"

"Rather! And how I hid in the lumber-room, and Jane found me, and
pushed me into the west parlour where you and father were—and Jack."

"Ah, yes."

"How surprised I was when I saw Jack. And afterwards, when I heard
you singing to him 'At even ere the sun was set,' it made me think
of my own mother, and—and—I didn't want to like you, but I liked
Jack. I couldn't help it."

"I know; I saw how it was. Oh, Theo, you don't wish now we had never
come?"

"Jane says you have made us all happier," Theodore said in an earnest
voice, "and John Bawdon says he thinks God sent you, and I think
so too. I am glad God made Jack well. It was dreadful for him when he
was so ill. I can't imagine how he could have been so good and
patient. Father says he has the soul of a hero, because he can bear
suffering, and not complain."

"Do you remember asking me who was the greatest man that ever lived?"
Mrs. Barton enquired, with a tender smile.

"Yes; and I remember all you said," Theodore answered eagerly.
"I couldn't understand then, but I do now. Oh!" he cried, with a
change of tone, "here are father and Jack. Jack, come round to the
stables with me, and see Jigger have his supper."

The two boys went off together, whilst Mr. and Mrs. Barton remained
in the garden. What their conversation was about may be judged from
the following remarks:

"The aunts are simply delighted to see how Theodore has grown to love
you," he said.

"I am happier than I can express," was the fervent response. "At one
time I almost despaired of winning his regard; but he is a noble boy,
and it has been good for Jack that they have met."



THE END.