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Two little travellers

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Title: Two little travellers
        A story for girls

Author: Frances Browne Arthur


        
Release date: July 4, 2008 [eBook #25972]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/25972

Credits: E-text prepared by Chris Curnow, Lindy Walsh, Mary Meehan, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TWO LITTLE TRAVELLERS ***


E-text prepared by Chris Curnow, Lindy Walsh, Mary Meehan, and the Project
Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net)



TWO LITTLE TRAVELLERS

A Story for Girls

by

RAY CUNNINGHAM

(FRANCES BROWNE ARTHUR)

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







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




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

        CHARLES DICKENS.




    TO
    MY CHILDREN




CONTENTS.


        I. UNDER THE CEDAR TREE

       II. LEFT BEHIND!

      III. THE BABES IN THE WOOD

       IV. FAR, FAR AWAY!

        V. GONE AMISSING!

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

      VII. HILL DIFFICULTY

     VIII. BAMBO AND BRUNO

       IX. THE NEXT MORNING

        X. THE HAPPY LAND

       XI. A SUDDEN FLIGHT

      XII. FOLLOWED BY THE ENEMY

     XIII. A TERRIBLE FRIGHT

      XIV. AT EVENING TIME

       XV. BAMBO'S FRIEND

      XVI. COMING AND GOING

     XVII. ADIEU!




TWO LITTLE TRAVELLERS.




CHAPTER I.

UNDER THE CEDAR TREE.

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

                                     MARY HOWITT.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER II.

LEFT BEHIND!

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

                             M. A. WOODS.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why, ah, why?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    "Ever journeying onward,
      Guided by a star."

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

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

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

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER III.

THE BABES IN THE WOOD.

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

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

                               F. E. WEATHERLY.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Joan still sobbed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Darby hesitated.

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

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

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




CHAPTER IV.

FAR, FAR AWAY!

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

                             F. E. WEATHERLY.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    "Ever journeying onward,
      Guided by a star."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Darby flung himself about in his wrath.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER V.

GONE AMISSING!

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

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

                      LONGFELLOW.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER VI.

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

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

     --A. KEARY.


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

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

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

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

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

Picture them then, please!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then she sighed heavily.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER VII.

HILL DIFFICULTY.

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

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

                               --_Anon._


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER VIII.

BAMBO AND BRUNO.

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

                                      MARY HOWITT.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER IX.

THE NEXT MORNING.

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

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

                            CHARLES DICKENS.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The dwarf got to his feet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER X.

THE HAPPY LAND.

    "Heaven lies about us in our infancy."

                              WORDSWORTH.

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

                              ROWE.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER XI.

A SUDDEN FLIGHT.

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

After a moment Moll spoke.

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

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

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

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




CHAPTER XII.

FOLLOWED BY THE ENEMY.

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

     --"A."


After his talk with Darby, the dwarf thought long and anxiously as t

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