Part 12 (2/2)

Duke shook his head.

”No,” he said, ”they'll never send us home now. Mick'd be put in prison if he took us home. I know that. I heard what they was saying about it one day when they didn't know I was there. And it's too far away--it's a dreadful way away. We can never go home. I daresay Grandpapa and Grandmamma and everybody's dead by now,” concluded Duke, who talked with a sort of reckless composure sometimes, altogether too much for Pamela, who burst into tears.

”Oh bruvver!” she cried between her sobs, ”don't talk like that. I _fink_ G.o.d's too good to have let dear Grandpapa and Grandmamma die. And us has said our prayers such many many times about going home. I'm sure Grandpapa would never put Mick in prison if us asked him not, and p'raps if Mick was sure of that he'd take us home. Oh don't you fink us might go and ask him,” and she started up.

”Us can't promise it; Grandpapa'd _have_ to do it. It'd be his _dooty_,”

said Duke sternly--his ideas on all subjects were very grim at present--”he'd have to stop Mick going and stealing away other children like he did us. And Diana said us mustn't speak to _n.o.body_ about what she told us.”

”I don't care about it if it isn't that us is going home,” said Pamela, crying quietly. ”I don't care about gold frocks like fairies and all that if dear Grandmamma and Grandpapa can't see us.”

Duke looked at her gloomily.

”P'raps Diana meant us'd soon be going to heaven,” he said at last. ”I heard them saying us'd 'not stand it long,' and I know that means going to die.”

”I don't care,” sobbed Pamela again, ”if Grandpapa and Grandmamma are dead, heaven'd be the best place for us to go to;” and regardless of all Diana had said to her about trying to eat and to keep up her spirits, the little girl let the tin plate, with the greasy meat and gravy, slip off her knees on to the floor, and, leaning her head on the hard wooden bench, she went off in a fit of piteous and hopeless sobbing. In a moment Duke's arms were around her, and he was kissing and hugging and doing his best to console her.

”Dear little sister,” he cried, ”don't be so _very_ unhappy. It was very naughty of me to say dear Grandpapa and Grandmamma and everybody would be dead.”

”And Toby,” interrupted Pamela. ”Did you mean Toby too?”

Duke considered.

”No, I don't think I meant Toby. He must be a good deal younger than Grandpapa and Grandmamma, and I don't think he'd be _quite_ so unhappy about us as they'd be.”

”If _I'd_ been Toby I'd have come to look for us,” said Pamela, crying now less violently. ”Us could have wrote a letter and tied it to his collar, and then Grandpapa could have come to look for us. Toby can run so fast,” and she was going on to describe what she would have done in Toby's place when the little door of the van opened and Diana reappeared. Her face clouded as she looked at the children.

”Crying again! Oh missie,” she said reproachfully, ”that's not good of you. You'll cry yourself ill, and then----” Diana in turn looked round and lowered her voice, ”have you forgotten the secret I told you? You'll never get away where you'd like to be if you make yourself ill. And scarce a bite of dinner have you touched,” she went on, looking at the bits of meat reposing beside the overturned plate.

Pamela lifted up her tear-swollen face and drew herself out of Duke's arms, to fling herself into Diana's.

”If us is going to die, it's no good eating,” she said.

”Who said you was a-going to die?” exclaimed the gipsy girl.

”Duke and I was talking, and us thought p'raps heaven was the nice place you said us'd go to if us was good,” replied Pamela.

Diana gave a little laugh, half sad and half bitter.

”It isn't here you'll learn much about going to _that_ place,” she said.

”But that wasn't what I meant. Listen, master and missy; but, mind you, never you say one word,--now hush and listen,” and in a very low voice she went on: ”To-night we'll get to a big town where there's a fair.

Mick's got it all settled to give you to a--a gentleman there, who'd dress you up fine and teach you to sing and to dance.”

”Would he be kind to us?” asked both children eagerly. Diana shook her head.

”Maybe, and maybe not. That's just why I cannot stand by and see you given to him,” said Diana, half as if speaking to herself. ”It was a bad day's work when he took them,” she went on. Then suddenly rousing herself: ”Listen children, again,” she said. ”If that man as I'm speaking of comes to see you to-night, as he most likely will, you must, for my sake and your own, speak very pretty, and try to laugh and look happy and answer all he says. It's only for once. For to-morrow--I can't say for sure to-morrow--but I think it will be, and I can't say the time--I'm going to do my best to get you sent back to where you should never have been taken from.” She stopped a moment as if to judge of the effect of her words. For an instant the children did not speak; they just stared at her with their blue eyes opened to their widest extent, their little white faces looking whiter than before, till gradually a rush of rosy colour spread over them, the blue eyes filled with tears, and both Duke and Pamela flung themselves into the gipsy girl's arms.

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