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.