Part 14 (2/2)

”That's the river where the boats are like houses--that Tim told us about,” said Pamela.

”Yes,” said Diana, ”it's the ca.n.a.l. It comes right into the town over that way,” and she pointed the left. ”The boats take stone from hereabouts,--there's lots of quarries near Crookford. I wanted you to see it, for we've been thinking, Tim and me--it's more his thought than mine--that that'd be the best way for you to get away. Mick'll not be likely to think of the ca.n.a.l, and Tim's been down to see if there was any one among the boat-people as would take you. He used to know some of them not far from here. And the ca.n.a.l goes straight on to a place called Monkhaven, on the road to Sandle'ham. Did you ever hear of that place?”

The children shook their heads.

”Well, it can't be helped. That's as far as you can get by the ca.n.a.l.

After that Tim must use his wits and look about him; and when you get to Sandle'ham I'm afraid there's no help for it--you'll have to ask the police to take you home.”

”But Tim too?” said Pamela. ”Tim's to go home with us.”

”I hope so,” said Diana. ”I hope the old gentleman and lady will be good to him, poor boy! Tell them it was none of _his_ fault, your being stolen away--he's but a poor homeless waif himself; and even if so be as they could do nothing for him, he mustn't come back here. Mick'd be like to kill him.”

”But Grandpapa and Grandmamma will be good to him. I _know_ they will,”

said Duke and Pamela together. ”They'd be good to you too, Diana,” they added timidly.

But Diana again shook her head.

”That can't be,” she said. ”Still, when all this has blown over a bit, I'll try to hear of you some day. Tim'll maybe be able to let me know the name of the place where your home is.”

”And you must come to see us. Oh yes, yes--you must, Diana!” said the children, dancing about with glee. The girl looked at them in some surprise; it was the first time she had seen them merry and light-hearted as they were at home, and it made her better understand how wretched their new life must have been for them to change them so.

”I'll try,” she said; ”but it doesn't much matter for that. The thing is for you to be safe at home yourselves.”

Then she said it was time to go back. It was quite dark by now, and the children kept very close to her as they found themselves again in the rabble of the behind-the-scenes of the fair. People there too were beginning to shut up for the night, for most of them, poor things, had been working hard all day.

As they came up to where Mick's party had encamped, Diana said something in the queer language the children did not understand to some of the gipsies who were hanging about. Their answer seemed to relieve her.

”Come, children,” she said; ”you must be tired. I'll get you to bed as quick as I can; and try to get to sleep. It's the best thing you can do.”--”They'll not be coming just yet, maybe,” she added to herself, ”if they've got to drinking over their bargain; so much the better perhaps.

If only the children are asleep they'll perhaps be none the wiser, and I'll hear all there is to hear.”

The preparing for bed was a different thing indeed from the careful was.h.i.+ng, hair-brus.h.i.+ng, and attiring in snow-white nightgowns that was called ”undressing” ”at home.” All that Diana could manage in the way of was.h.i.+ng apparatus was a rough wooden tub with cold water, a bit of coa.r.s.e soap, and an old rag by way of a towel! And even this she had done more to please the children than because she saw any need for it.

This evening she made no pretence of anything after taking off the children's outer clothes--Duke's nankin suit, now sadly soiled and dilapidated, and the old red flannel skirt and little shawl which had replaced Pamela's white frock. The frock was still in existence; but by Mick's orders Diana had trimmed it up gaudily for the child to make her appearance in to the Signor; so the little girl's attire was certainly very gipsy-like.

”Shall I have to go home to Grandmamma with this nugly old petticoat and no frock?” she asked, when Diana had taken off all her clothes down to her little flannel vest, and wrapped her up for the night in a clean, though old, cotton bedgown of her own. ”And why have you taken off my chemise, Diana? I've kept it on other nights.”

”I'm going to wash it,” said Diana. ”I'd like to send you back as decent as I _can_.”

Pamela seemed satisfied. Then she and Duke knelt together at the side of the shake-down Diana called their bed, and said their prayers together and aloud. The gipsy girl had heard them before--several times--but this evening she listened with peculiar attention, and when at the end the little creatures, after praying for dear Grandpapa and Grandmamma, and that G.o.d would please soon take them safe home again, went on to add a special pet.i.tion for ”dear Diana,” who had been so kind to them, that she might be always good and happy, and that Mick and n.o.body should be unkind to her, the girl turned away her face to hide the tears which slowly welled up into her eyes.

”Good-night, dear Diana,” said the two little voices, as she stooped to kiss them.

”Good-night, master and missy. Sleep well, and don't be frightened if you're wakened up. I'll be here.” Then, as she was turning away, she hesitated. ”Do you really think now,” she said, ”that it's any good praying for a wild gipsy girl like me?”

”Of course it is,” said Pamela, starting up again. ”Why shouldn't it be as much good for you as for any one? If you want to be good--and I think you are good, Diana--you can't help praying to G.o.d. For all the good comes from Him. That's what Grandmamma told us. And He puts little bits of His good into us.”

Diana looked puzzled.

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