Part 20 (2/2)

But a string of questions was the first answer she got.

”Have you come to look for us, dear Barbara? Did Grandpapa and Grandmamma send you, and Toby too? How did you know which way to come?

And have you seen Tim? Did Tim tell you?”

”Tim, Tim, I know nought of who Tim is, my dearies,” said Barbara, shaking her head. ”If it's any one that's been good to you, so much the better. I've been at Nooks, the village hard by, for some days with my niece. I meant to have stayed but two or three nights, but I've been more nor a week, and a worry in my heart all the time not to get back home to hear if there was no news of you, and how my poor lady was. And to think if I _had_ gone home I wouldn't have met you--dear--dear--but the ordering of things is wonderful!”

”And didn't you come to look for us, then? But why is Toby with you?”

asked the children.

”He was worritting your dear Grandmamma. There was no peace with him after you were lost. And though I didn't rightly come to Monkhaven to look for you, I had a feeling--it was bore in on me that I'd maybe find some trace of you, and I thought Toby would be the best help. And truly I could believe he'd scented you were not far off--the worry he's been all this morning! A-barking and a-sniffing and a-listening like! I was in two minds as to which way I'd take this morning--round by Monkhaven or by the lane. But Toby he was all for the lane, and so I just took his way, the Lord be thanked!”

”He _knowed_ us was here--he did, didn't he? Oh, darling Toby!” cried the twins.

But then Barbara had to be told all. Not very clear was the children's account of their adventures at first; for the losing of Tim and the vision of the policeman and the ca.n.a.l boat were the topmost on their minds, and came tumbling out long before anything about the gipsies, which of course was the princ.i.p.al thing to tell. Bit by bit, however, thanks to her patience, their old friend came to understand the whole.

She heaved a deep sigh at last.

”To think that it was the gipsies after all.”

But she made not many remarks, and said little about the broken-bowl-part of the story. It would be for their dear Grandmamma to show them where they had been wrong, she thought modestly, if indeed they had not found it out for themselves already. I think they had.

”Us is always going to tell Grandmamma _everyfing_ now,” said Pamela.

”And us is always going to listen to the talking of that little voice,”

added Duke.

But the first excitement over, old Barbara began to notice that the children were looking very white and tired. How was she ever to get them to Brigslade--a five miles' walk at least--where again, for she had chosen Brigslade market-day on purpose, she counted on Farmer Carson to give her a lift home? She was not strong enough to carry them--one at a time--more than a short distance. Besides she had her big basket.

Glancing at it gave her another idea.

”I can at least give you something to eat,” she said. ”Niece Turwall packed all manner of good things in here,” and, after some rummaging, out she brought two slices of home-made cake and a bottle of currant wine, of which she gave them each a little in a cup without a handle which Mrs. Turwall had thoughtfully put in. The cake and the wine revived the children wonderfully. They said they were able to walk ”a long long way,” and indeed there was nothing for it but to try, and so the happy little party set off.

The thought of Tim, however, weighed on their minds, and when Barbara had arrived at some sort of idea as to who he was, and what he had done, she too felt even more anxious about him. Even without prejudice it must be allowed that the police of those days were not what they are now, and Barbara knew that for a poor waif like Tim it would not be easy to obtain a fair hearing.

”And he won't be wanting to get that gipsy girl into trouble by telling on the lot of them, which will make it harder for the poor lad,” thought the shrewd old woman, for the children had told her all about Diana.

”But there's nothing to be done that I can see except to get the General to write to the police at Monkhaven.” For Mrs. Twiss knew that Duke and Pam would be terribly against the idea of going back to the town and to the police office. And she herself had no wish to do so--she was not without some distrust of the officers of the law herself, and it would, too, have grieved her sadly not to have been the one to restore the lost children to their friends. Besides, Farmer Carson would be waiting for her at the cross roads, for ”if by any chance I don't come back before, you may be sure I'll be there on Friday, next market-day,” she had said to him at parting.

”You don't think they'll put Tim in prison, do you?” asked Duke, seeing that the old woman's face grew grave when she had heard all.

”Oh no, surely, not so bad as that,” she replied. ”And even if we went back I don't know that it would do much good.”

”Go back to where the policemans are,” exclaimed the twins, growing pale at the very idea. ”Oh please--_please_ don't,” and they both crept closer to their old friend.

”But if it would make them let Tim come wif us?” added Pamela, s.h.i.+vering, nevertheless. ”I'd _try_ not to be frightened. Poor Tim--he has been so good to us, us can't go and leave him all alone.”

”But, my deary,” said Barbara, ”I don't rightly see what we can do for him. The police might think it right to keep us all there too--and I'm that eager to get you home to ease your dear Grandmamma and the General.

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