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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

After a moment Moll spoke.

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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



CHAPTER XII.

FOLLOWED BY THE ENEMY.

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

—"A."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER XIII.

A TERRIBLE FRIGHT.

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

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

R. HERRICK.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The dwarf did not answer immediately.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER XIV.

AT EVENING TIME.

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

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

—LONGFELLOW.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER XV.

BAMBO'S FRIEND.

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

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

E. COXHEAD.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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