The Hermit's Cave, by Eleanora H. Stooke

IT was a mild day towards the end of February; and though so early in the year, spring flowers were in full bloom in the sheltered gardens which surrounded Afton Hall.

Bright yellow crocuses, like regiments of plucky little soldiers in amber uniform, with here and there clumps of mauve or white, bordered the flower-beds; whilst daffodils reared their stately golden heads in the gentle breeze, and snowdrops peeped modestly from amongst their gorgeously-apparelled neighbours.

The patch of ground in front of the side of the house that faced the west was particularly productive, being sheltered from the east wind; and as old John Bawdon, the gardener, carefully turned over the brown earth with his spade on this promising spring morning, he made a mental picture of the garden as he hoped to see it in the summer.

"'Tis beautiful soil," he muttered; "just the right sort for them young carnation plants. They'll make a fine show by-and-by!"

"John!" cried a young, imperious voice. "John! what are you talking about, all to yourself?"

The gardener turned his brown, weather-beaten countenance towards the speaker, a boy of about seven years old, whose handsome face was ruddy and glowing with perfect health.

"Why do you say 'please God'?" asked the child, laughing. "You know, John, you always do say it, and it does sound so funny."

"Well, Master Theodore," was the reply, in rather injured tones, "I suppose it is as God pleases, anyway. I may dig, and plant, and prune, and tend the garden with all my strength, but it's all no good if God doesn't help. That's my experience, sir, and I've lived nigh upon seventy years, and more than fifty of those years I've been working in these here gardens. You don't find many of my sort now-a-days," he added with conscious pride. "More than half a century I've served your family, Master Theodore, as I've told you many times. I mind when your grandfather, who's dead and gone, was a lad; we were boys together. I mind when your father was born, and I mind the night you came into the world. Yes, I recollect some changes."

The old man struck his spade into the ground, and leaning on the handle of it, looked very tenderly at the boy. The child was clad in a loose, sailor's suit, and he stood in a negligent, care-for-nothing attitude, his hands in his trousers pockets.

"I know you're awfully old, John,—" he was beginning, when the old man interrupted him.

"Not so old but that there's a deal of work left in me yet. I'm strong and hearty still. But living in one family so many years, naturally one sees changes—great changes. You know, Master Theodore, how this bit of ground was your mother's favourite spot; she used to call it her winter garden, because there were mostly flowers here in dead winter. See that yellow jessamine against the wall, and that clump o' anemones! They were here in your mother's time. And the blue violets! How your mother did love violets, to be sure! I made a beautiful wreath of them to put on her coffin, and it was buried with her. It seemed fitting like that she should be covered in flowers, she who was so bright and beautiful, when they threw the cruel earth in upon her."

The old man drew his sleeve hastily across his eyes, then caught up his spade, and set to work again with renewed vigour. Presently a smile crossed his face, and he continued:—

"I called the earth cruel, but it ain't—it's kind! Don't it give us the flowers? Don't it take the ugly little brown bulb, and keep it warm, and nurse it, till the beautiful blossom is ready to come? Why, Master Theodore, the earth won't be able to keep your mother on the resurrection day, no more than it can keep the flowers from blooming when the spring's here. No one knows better than a gardener what the resurrection means, as I told the vicar."

John Bawdon stopped abruptly, seeing the child was perplexed. There was a troubled look on the handsome little face; a rebellious gleam in the clear, grey eyes; and the old man watched him furtively for a few minutes.

"You know," the child went on, lowering his voice, as though the subject was one not to be discussed openly, "my father is married again, and to-morrow they are coming home. Jane says he has forgotten my mother, and she says he will care less than ever for me now."

"Jane is a meddling, tattling woman, and ought to know better than to think such things, much less say 'em!" cried John Bawdon angrily. "She don't know anything about it, Master Theodore; you mustn't take notice of what she says."

"No, sir, she cannot, that's certain. But if she's a kind, good lady, she may make things all the happier for you. Your own dear mother's body lies in the churchyard waiting for the resurrection day, and her pure spirit is with her Lord. Oh, my mistress!"

"I'm a fool," John Bawdon muttered to himself; "but I can't bear to think of a stranger in her place, though it was seven years ago she died."

"Don't you let anyone put you against your father's wife," he continued aloud. "I daresay she'll be a nice lady; and anyway, I don't suppose she'll make much difference to you, Master Theodore."

"No," the child promptly agreed; "but I shan't call her 'mother,'" and his lips took a firmer curve, and his eyes flashed.

John Bawdon made no reply, but every now and again he turned from his work to look at the slim little figure wandering in and out among the flower-beds. Theodore Barton, in spite of possessing every comfort and luxury that money could procure, was a sadly neglected child. His mother had died at his birth, and his father, filled with grief at the loss he had sustained, had always been apparently indifferent to his son. So far, seven years Theodore had lived at Afton Hall, cared for by his nurse, Jane, subject only to the occasional interference of two maiden aunts of his father, who lived at a pretty villa not far distant. Now Mr. Barton had married again; to-morrow he was to bring home his bride. It was to be a very quiet home-coming: no rejoicings in the village; no grand doings at the Hall.

"Yes. They are lovely. I shall have some for the nursery," and he proceeded to gather a great bunch. "How quickly they have come up after the snow!"

"People talk of snow being cold, but it ain't; it's warm—warm as a blanket. God sends it to protect the tender, delicate plants. The Lord's a rare good gardener, He is—on a grand scale."

"All the world's the Lord's garden. He tends and cares for the trees, and the grass, and everything. You mind the lilies o' the field, Master Theodore, how He said they were finer than King Solomon in all his glory. You look at them crocuses now. Ain't they glorious? Bright as gold, and as smooth as satin. There's colour for you!"

But the child was not listening. He had darted off to meet his nurse, who was coming to seek him. She was a tall, plain woman of forty, neatly dressed in black. Jane Mugford was devoted to her little master, having been with him ever since his birth; and before that time she had been maid to the late Mrs. Barton.

Old John Bawdon nodded to her in friendly fashion; and she returned his greeting in cordial tones.

"Good afternoon, John. How well the garden looks, to be sure. I suppose you're tidying up a bit against the home-coming to-morrow?"

The woman paused abruptly with a glance at the child, but apparently, not interested in the conversation, he was watching a worm that was crawling across the pathway.

"Not I, indeed. His father hasn't thought it worth while to mention the subject to him, and why should I? They are coming home to-morrow, as you know, and intend bringing her child with them. He has been staying with his mother's friends. Oh! we shall have fine changes at Afton Hall! But I'll see that Master Theodore's nose isn't put out of joint! The precious lamb!"

"Now, Jane, don't you try to set Master Theodore against the new mistress, there's a good soul. It may all turn out for the best; maybe it's the Lord's doing."

"Set him against the new mistress!" cried Jane, indignantly. "As if I'd dream of doing such a thing! Well, John Bawdon, you must have a mean opinion of me, indeed!"

"No, I haven't, Jane. But I know how you love the little master, and how you loved his mother; and I think maybe it seems hard to see another in her place. Well, well, I can't say I haven't felt like that too. You're afraid Master Theodore will be worse off than ever now, I suppose?"

The woman nodded, and answered angrily with flashing eyes: "His father don't care for him as he ought, though he is his heir, and such a fine, handsome, little lad. And now, with this strange woman and her child here, he'll care less!"

"No, no! The children will be friends, you'll see; they're near of an age, I hear. It may be the best thing for Master Theodore, his father marrying again."

"Well, John, you always try to look on the bright side of everything; I'll say that much in your favour," Jane remarked, a pleasant smile chasing the gloom from her face.

"It's the Christian way to look at things, at any rate," the old man responded, gravely.

"So it is; you're right, so it is. Hope is a Christian virtue, they say. Come, Master Theodore, come, my dear, it's near dinner-time, and you must come in."

The child bounded to her side. She took him by the hand, and stood looking down into his upturned face, as she asked—"Master Theodore, how would you like to have a brother?"

"Yes. She—Mrs. Barton—your father's new wife, has a little boy about your age."

"No, my dear, of course it's not. It's your home, Master Theodore, and no one shall interfere with you, I promise that. There," soothingly, "don't get cross. You're Jane's own dear, good boy, her little master, her—"

"Master Theodore," interposed John anxiously, "don't you think you would like a boy to play with? I know you would. Of course Mrs. Barton will bring her little son here; and I expect she'll want you to show him about the place, and be kind to him. He'll be lonesome at first, and a bit shy—"

"Do you think he will be bigger than me?" asked the child, drawing his slender, graceful form to its full height.

"Fight!" cried Jane, in horrified accents. "I should think not, indeed! What can you mean, Master Theodore?"

"Tom Blake says boys always fight to see which is the master. I shall not touch the—the strange woman's little boy if he is smaller than me—that would be cowardly. But if he is about my size," with flashing eyes and clenched teeth, "I shall thrash him."

Having delivered this speech, Theodore drew his hand away from Jane's clasp, and ran off toward the house. His nurse followed hastily, whilst old John Bawdon gazed after them with troubled eyes.

CHAPTER II.

THEODORE BECOMES ACQUAINTED WITH HIS STEPMOTHER AND HER LITTLE SON.

THE following afternoon the inmates of Afton Hall were in a great state of excitement. The servants, headed by Mrs. Hussey, the housekeeper, were ranged in a line in the entrance hall, awaiting the arrival of the travellers.

Suddenly there was a slight commotion heard, and Jane darted downstairs, her face pale with consternation.

"Has any one seen Master Theodore?" she gasped, looking eagerly from one to another of the astonished faces. "I can't find him anywhere. Half an hour ago he was in the nursery, and now he's gone!"

The servants exchanged meaning looks. No one had seen the child. Jane rushed out, calling him loudly; but though she searched every nook of the grounds, and every corner of the stables and outhouses, she could discover no sign of him.

Meanwhile, in an old lumber-room at the very top of the house, Theodore lay carefully concealed under a heap of disused bedding. He felt warm and uncomfortable, for it was a decidedly mild day, to be so covered up.

By straining his ears, he could faintly hear distant sounds. He was very unhappy, very lonely, and his heart was filled with evil feelings against the strange woman, as he mentally dubbed his father's wife. He was sure she would treat him unkindly; he had heard many stories of cruel, unjust stepmothers; and he had made up his mind to hate this one and her child. Poor little boy! He had never known any love except old John Bawdon's, and Jane's idolising, ill-advised affection, which was calculated to spoil him. Jane was so fond of her little master, so jealous for him, that she had all unintentionally succeeded in sowing the seeds of hostility towards his stepmother in his impressionable heart. She resented the idea of another child in the house.

"Mrs. Barton's son shall not interfere with Master Theodore," she had told Mrs. Hussey the night before in Theodore's bearing; "I shall see to that. No doubt the master will make much of him, as it's her child; but Master Theodore is the heir, and the Hall is his rightful home, while that other will only be here on sufferance."

Theodore recalled the words as he lay listening, and though he did not thoroughly understand their meaning, he felt somehow injured and resentful. Suddenly he heard the sound of carriage wheels, then a tumult of voices, and presently a long silence, broken after what seemed an interminable time by approaching footsteps.

The child held his breath in suspense. The footsteps drew nearer, and then the door opened, and he heard the voices of Jane and Mrs. Hussey.

"He may be hiding here," Jane remarked, "but I don't think it's likely. Master Theodore, are you anywhere about?"

"Perhaps he's under this heap," Mrs. Hussey replied, and hastily turning over the bedding, she discovered Theodore.

"Oh, you naughty, naughty boy!" Jane cried, as, pouncing upon him, she dragged him to his feet. "Your father's come, and his wife, and the child. Master's that angry with you for not being there to greet him! I hardly dared tell him we couldn't find you! You must come down at once."

"What is the strange woman like?" Theodore demanded. "And how big is the little boy?"

"Come and see for yourself, Master Theodore," Mrs. Hussey said kindly. "They are having tea in the west parlour. You may as well get the meeting over at once."

Theodore suffered himself to be led downstairs unresistingly, but outside the door his heart failed him, and he drew back.

Jane looked alarmed, fearing a scene. She hastily stooped down and kissed him, then knocked at the door, and opening it, pushed him in.

The west parlour was one of the pleasantest rooms in the house. To-day a bright fire burned in the grate, whilst the air was sweet with the scent of spring flowers, that had been gathered and arranged in large, old-fashioned china bowls on the table and mantlepiece. Old John Bawdon had plucked his choicest blooms in honour of his master and his wife.

Theodore saw his father standing at the window, a tall, rather severe-looking man. He turned at his son's entrance, and addressed him somewhat sharply: "Where have you been, Theodore?"

"What were you doing there? I should not have thought there was much attraction in a lumber-room."

Theodore raised his eyes to his father's face, and hesitated, but only for a moment.

"I suppose you were shy," Mr. Barton remarked, his grave face relaxing into a smile, as he shook hands with his son, and then continued, "Now, I want to introduce you to my wife. Mary, this is Theodore. Theodore, here is a lady who is very anxious to know you; and if you are good—"

"Oh! I am sure he is good," interrupted a voice, somewhat hurriedly, and a figure that had been seated in an easy chair by the fire rose with a kind of nervous haste, and came forward. Theodore looked at the stranger from head to foot, steadily. He saw a slight, graceful figure, a pair of soft brown eyes, and a gentle face crowned with dusky hair.

Mrs. Barton took the boy's limp hand, and smiled kindly at him. He thought she meant to kiss him, as, indeed, she had intended, but he drew hastily back, and met her friendly glance with one of proud defiance.

"I hope we shall be friends," she said. "You will try to like me, will you not, my dear?"

Theodore made no answer; he seemed perfectly tongue-tied. Mrs. Barton cast an imploring look at her husband not to interfere; and with a slightly impatient gesture he turned away, and looked out of the window.

Meanwhile Theodore's eyes had wandered to the sofa, whereon lay a boy of about his own age,—a boy with a mass of short golden curls, soft brown eyes, and a thin, pale face. The brown eyes were watching Theodore with great interest, and now they smiled at him, whilst a slender hand was extended in greeting. Theodore gazed in surprise, for the strange boy looked ill and delicate; so altogether different from what he had pictured him.

"How do you do?" Jack asked politely. "Your name is Theodore, isn't it? Won't you please come nearer, and shake hands with me?"

Theodore obeyed mechanically, wondering why Jack should recline on the sofa. He looked with surprise at the small hand that clasped his own brown fingers.

"Why does he lie there?" he asked abruptly, addressing his stepmother for the first time. He was puzzled at the look of pain that crossed her face at his simple question; but Jack made answer readily and cheerfully:

"It's my back," Jack went on to explain. "When I was a small boy I fell downstairs, and I've never been well since."

He spoke as though he was a grown-up person, in a matter-of-fact tone. "I shall never be strong like you as long as I live."

Theodore was greatly impressed. He fixed his serious grey eyes on Jack's face, and thought deeply.

"Dreadfully sometimes; it makes me cross and naughty, and then I'm so sorry afterwards. I tell the dear Lord Jesus about it, and oh! how I wish He was on earth now! I would get mother to go to Him, and ask Him to cure me. As it is, I'll have to wait till I die to get well."

"Well, one thing is certain," Theodore remarked with conviction in his tones, "you can't fight."

"Fight!" Jack exclaimed, in accents of surprise, whilst his mother looked somewhat startled, and Mr. Barton turned from the window and surveyed his son in amazement.

"Yes, fight," Theodore continued. "I meant to fight you, you know. Boys always fight; but I couldn't hit a fellow who's lame—it wouldn't be fair play."

"Theodore!" interposed his father angrily. "You talk like a perfect little savage!"

Mrs. Barton laid her hand kindly on his shoulder, as she said somewhat wistfully, "I hope you and Jack will be friends, Theodore. You are so strong, my dear, that I shall feel you are quite a protector for him."

Theodore looked up brightly and smiled. "Yes," he answered, "I'm very strong. I can run faster than much bigger boys, and I can climb trees, and ride Jigger—that's my pony, you know—bare-backed. If you like," with an air of condescension, "I will look after your little boy for you. The village boys are very rough."

"Jack will hardly come much in contact with the village boys, I should say," Mr. Barton interposed dryly.

"You see, Theodore," Jack explained, "I never go out except in my chair. I can't walk."

"Can't walk!" Theodore exclaimed in horrified accents. "Can't walk! oh, how dreadful!"

"You had better send Theodore away," Mr. Barton said to his wife. "I am afraid he is upsetting Jack."

"I did not say anything to make him cry!" Theodore exclaimed indignantly, turning his fearless eyes on his father's face.

"No, no," Mrs. Barton said soothingly. "But Jack is tired with the journey, so I think I will put him to bed."

"Yes," said Jack, looking round, and smiling through his tears. "I am tired. Do come and see me when I am in bed, Theodore." And Theodore promised.

"Well, and what do you think of Mrs. Barton?" asked Jane, as Theodore joined her in the nursery.

In the distance he could see the tower of the parish church, and his thoughts wandered to his dead mother, whose body lay buried in the peaceful churchyard yonder.

"Law, no, sir! Her eyes were as blue as the heavens, and her hair was bright gold. You favour your father in looks, Master Theodore. Your blessed mother was as fair as a lily, and with a colour in her cheeks like a blush rose."

"And the little boy? Did you know he was lame? He cannot walk. Is it not sad? Why did God let him fall downstairs and hurt himself, Jane?"

"It seems hard on Jack—his name is Jack. I am to go and see him when he is in bed. He asked me."

"The house will seem different now they are come. And I think father looks different already,—somehow I think he looks gladder."

Jane made no reply. Presently Theodore went to the door and listened. He knew a room had been prepared, not far from his own, for his stepbrother, and he wondered if he was yet in bed. He ventured out into the passage, and crept cautiously along it. Before a half-closed door he paused, and peeped in. Jack was in bed, his mother standing by his side, whilst in a low, sweet voice she sang to him:

She sang the hymn through to the last verse; and when it was finished she looked around, and saw the little figure in the doorway, watching.

"Come and say good night to Jack," she said, smiling, and thus encouraged Theodore advanced to the bedside.

"I must not let you talk to-night, because Jack is over-tired, and I want him to go to sleep quickly."

Jack raised himself in bed, and lifted his wan little face for Theodore to kiss. Theodore complied somewhat awkwardly, and with a muttered "good night" turned away. He watched Mrs. Barton as she tenderly embraced her son; and listened to her whispered: "God bless you, my darling." Then she joined him outside the door.

"Good night, my dear," she whispered; then she stooped and impulsively imprinted a kiss on his forehead: "God bless you, too, Theodore."

CHAPTER III.

THEODORE'S GREAT-AUNTS.

NOT many hundred yards from the entrance to the grounds of Afton Hall, lying slightly back from the high road, with a grass plot surrounded by flower-beds in front, was a snug little house called The Nest.

It was occupied by two maiden ladies named Barton, aunts to Mr. Barton, and therefore great-aunts to Theodore. Miss Selina, the elder sister, was a tall, gaunt woman, who prided herself on being outspoken. She was sixty-two years of age, but looked younger; whilst her sister, Miss Penelope, was ten years her junior.

If it had been Miss Selina's lot to have lived in some large, busy parish, her services would have been invaluable, for she dearly loved visiting the poor, attending meetings, and generally interesting herself in parochial matters. But Miss Selina was not much liked in her native place. She had a knack of rubbing people the wrong way, of discovering their weaknesses, of being quick to notice their shortcomings, and equally slow to see their good points. That the poor were an ungrateful set, she was always saying, thriftless and wasteful; it was quite useless rendering them assistance: and yet—strange inconsistency—no applicant for help was ever allowed to be sent unsatisfied away from The Nest.

Miss Penelope was not in the least like her sister. Once she had been pretty, and she never for one instant forgot the fact; but it had been the sort of beauty that rarely lasts beyond youth. Miss Penelope's roses had faded; her blue eyes looked washed-out; and there were decidedly ill-tempered lines around her small, button mouth, for the younger Miss Barton did not possess the beauty of a cheerful, happy spirit.

Little Theodore was not particularly fond of either of his aunts, but he decidedly had a preference for Miss Selina. Miss Penelope was his teacher. From half-past nine to twelve o'clock every morning Theodore was at The Nest, given up to the tender mercies of Miss Penelope, who made him spell out little stories about the bad boy who devoured too much cake, and nearly died in consequence, and the good boy who shared his cake with his schoolfellows, and was filled with complacency at his own unselfishness.

Miss Penelope always impressed her pupil with the idea of how kind it was on her part to give so much time to him, utterly regardless of the fact that she was amply remunerated by the child's father.

On the morning after the return of Mr. and Mrs. Barton, Theodore was late in arriving at The Nest. He entered the sitting room with glowing cheeks, and sung his books noisily upon the table. Miss Selina was seated sewing by the window, whilst her sister stood bolt upright by the mantelpiece, her face puckered into its most ill-tempered frown.

"Well, Theodore," the younger lady cried tartly, "you noisy boy? How long do you imagine I have been kept waiting? Look at the clock! It is past ten!"

"I am awfully sorry, Aunt Pen," Theodore responded deprecatingly; "I am really. But I forgot the time. I was busy talking to Jack, Mrs. Barton's little boy, you know. He's not half bad!"

Miss Selina dropped her sewing, and glanced curiously at the child's bright, animated countenance.

"And what do you think of your stepmother?" she queried. "Come, Theodore, I am curious to hear what she is like."

"She is very pretty, Aunt Selina, very pretty—much prettier than any of the ladies about here."

Miss Penelope gave a little disdainful sniff, and glanced at her own reflection in the pier-glass.

"I don't think I can quite explain how she looks," the child continued doubtfully, "but she's like Jack; only her hair is quite dark, and his is yellow like gold. Oh, Aunt Selina, is it not sad? Jack cannot walk; he won't ever be able to walk. I mean to be kind to him, poor fellow!"

"The newcomers have evidently got you on their side already, Theodore," Miss Penelope remarked disagreeably; "and you were so certain you would hate your new mother."

"She is not my mother!" the boy cried, his cheeks flushing hotly, his handsome face clouding with anger. "But I never said I should hate her. How could I tell what she would be like? I meant to fight Jack; but I'm not a coward, and now I've seen him I couldn't hit him."

"No, no," Miss Selina interposed hastily, with a warning look at her sister. "Of course we knew there was a child, but we had not heard he was a cripple."

"He will never be better in this world," Theodore declared solemnly. "He will have to wait till he dies to get well."

"He's about my age, Aunt Selina, and he's very clever. You can't think what a lot he knows about all sorts of things. He says his mother teaches him."

"Oh, he's very well, thank you! I don't think I ever saw him so bright. He gave me five shillings this morning to spend as I like; and oh! I forgot to tell you, he sent his love to you both."

"I'm sure it's very kind of him. You must remember us to him," said Miss Selina, as she rose preparatory to leaving the room. "We shall call shortly. Well, Theodore, you know I am nothing if not outspoken, and I always speak my mind. My advice to you is, to keep in your stepmother's good graces if you can."

Lessons commenced, and Theodore struggled through his multiplication tables and worked his sums, interrupted occasionally by questions from Miss Penelope relative to the newcomers at the Hall.

"I suppose she dresses well?" she queried, pausing in the midst of correcting a sum that Theodore had been laboriously adding up.

"It will be a change for her—life at the Hall, I mean. I believe she was poor?" she said interrogatively.

"Yes, so I am informed; a half-pay officer's widow. Well, well, some people have luck, to be sure. How does your father appear to take to the child—Jack, I think you said he was called?"

"Oh, I think he likes him very well and Jack seems to be awfully fond of father."

"Indeed! Do not let your nose be put out of joint, Theodore. Not that it can make any real difference to you, of course: you are the heir, any way; no one can alter that."

Theodore regarded his aunt gravely in puzzled silence. Her eyes fell beneath his steady gaze, and she hastily bade him continue his work. He was not sorry when the clock at last struck twelve, and Miss Penelope dismissed him, with a caution to be in good time on the morrow.

On his way home he met Tom Blake, the blacksmith's son, a tall, over-grown boy of twelve.

"Why, how is it you are not at school?" Theodore inquired, pausing to exchange a few words with Tom, on whom he looked with deep admiration, as a being much older and wiser than himself, and therefore to be regarded with due reverence.

Tom explained that he had taken a holiday to go birds'-nesting, but that in spite of the mildness of the spring, the birds, as it turned out, had known better than to build so early.

"I guess the old man will wollop me," Tom grinned, alluding to his father; "but I don't care, not I."

Theodore looked at the daring youth with admiring eyes, considering him very brave; then he poured into Tom's ears all he knew about Jack.

Tom listened open-mouthed with astonishment, his eyes growing rounder and rounder.

"Well!" he exclaimed at length, "well, I never! He might as well have been a girl!"

"Oh, no!" cried Theodore indignantly; "he's not a bit girlish—not a bit! If he could run about, I believe he would be as brave as you."

"That's good, that is! Ha! ha!" he laughed. "A cripple, and as brave as me! Ha! ha!"

He went off, still convulsed with merriment; whilst Theodore pursued his way, feeling annoyed and angry, he scarcely knew why. He found old John Bawdon pottering about the garden, as usual, and to him he spoke of Jack, and confided to him what Tom had said.

"Don't you take notice of anything that boy says, Master Theodore," the old man advised. "And as to being brave, there's many a plucky chap as has never fought with his fists. Bodily strength isn't everything; and I shouldn't wonder if Tom Blake, for all his boasting, isn't a bit of a coward at heart. I 'aven't seen your stepbrother yet, so I don't know what he's like, but his mother's been out and 'ad a few words with me. Heard a lot of me from the master, she said. Well, maybe that's very likely, me 'aving served the family so long. She 'as a kind voice, and a kind face. I've a notion we'll learn to bless the day she came here. I'll own I dreaded her coming; I'm old, Master Theodore, and I don't like new faces; but when I saw hers, I don't know what made me say it, but I said, speaking the words that came first to my tongue, natural-like, 'God bless you, ma'am, you'll make the old place bright again!'"

"Said she'd do her best; and she will, I know. See how cheerful the master looks; not like the same man. I heard him whistling just now like a boy, and it did me more good to hear him than if any one 'ad given me a five pound note."

Theodore laughed, and went into the house, where he ascertained that Mr. and Mrs. Barton had gone out together.

He bounded upstairs into the nursery in search of Jane, and there found her with Jack, who was lying on an invalid's chair near the window.

"Oh, Theodore, how long you have been!" Jack cried, his beautiful dark eyes lighting up with a look of eager welcome. "Not that I have been dull," he added hastily, with a courteous, deprecating glance at his companion, "for Jane has been reading to me, and we have had a nice talk—haven't we, Jane?"

"I've been telling her how I hurt my back. She used to know a little boy who was lame, and after a time he got quite well. But I can't, you know. Lots of doctors have been to see me, and one was a very great doctor indeed, from a hospital in London, where there are lots and lots of children. He came and punched me about a good deal; he didn't mean to hurt, you know; he had to do it. He was sorry; and I told him when I grew up I meant to be a great doctor, too; and he smiled, and looked sorrier and sorrier, because you see he thought I should not live very long. I should like to be a doctor, shouldn't you, Theodore?—a doctor like St. Luke."

"Mother told me." Then changing the conversation, "Does your governess give you difficult lessons to learn, Theo?"

"Jane says she's like a washed-out doll," Theodore answered, with a laugh at Jane's discomfited face.

"Oh, Master Theo, you shouldn't repeat what I say like that!" she cried in shocked tones.

"Well, Jane, you know quite well you did say so. She's not a bit like Aunt Selina, who is very tall, and thin, and dark. They're coming to call soon, and then you'll see them, most likely."

"Then they'll come up here to see you, never fear: They asked me lots of questions about you; and they'll be sure to want to see you out of curiosity," said Theodore candidly.

"You shouldn't say that, Master Theodore," Jane interposed. "Miss Selina's a kind, generous lady; every one in the parish knows that. And Miss Penelope, for all she's a trifle cross-grained sometimes, is very clever, I'm told."

"I saw Tom Blake, Jane, as I came home. He's been stopping away from school this morning to go birds'-nesting."

"How often am I to tell you, sir, not to have anything to say to that naughty boy? He's one of the worst boys in the village."

"I'm sure he's not," was the quick, indignant retort. "He's a very nice boy; and he knows about everything!"

"Yes; everything he ought not to know, I expect. His father does some poaching, I'm told, and no doubt he is teaching his son to follow in his footsteps. If I hear of your going with him, Master Theodore, I shall tell Mr. Barton."

Thereupon followed a long wrangle, to which little Jack listened in astonishment. At length, after Theodore had worked himself into a violent fit of passion, Jane gave in, as she usually did on such occasions, and there was peace once more.

CHAPTER IV.

THE GREATEST MAN THAT EVER LIVED.

THREE months had passed since the arrival of the new mistress and her little son at Afton Hall. The housekeeper had left, and had not been replaced. Mrs. Barton preferring to hold the reins of government in her own hands.

In the nursery Jane still reigned supreme, but there was now a younger woman to assist her; for, much to the surprise of all the household, Jane had volunteered to take Jack under her charge, and the plan answered admirably.

The invalid child, with his sunny disposition, and winning ways, had won her heart at once; though she still looked with jealous, suspicious eyes on his mother.

"You see, Master Theodore," she explained one day, "there's no need to keep the poor little fellow at a distance, seeing it's not likely he will be here long anyway. He's that fond of you, too! Why, when you're out his eyes are always looking towards the door at the slightest sound, thinking you're coming. 'Jane,' he said to me the other day, 'isn't it grand to be strong like Theo!' Poor little chap! It's hard times for him!"

By this time the stepbrothers were fast friends. As the weather became warmer, Jack went out every day, and was drawn about the garden in his wheeled invalid's chair. He made acquaintance with John Bawdon, and the old man would often chat to the child. On one of these occasions, when the two were left alone together for a few minutes, Jack asked the age of his companion, and, on being told, remarked thoughtfully:

"How strange to be so old! Do you know I am only seven, and I shall not live long; perhaps I shall die before you, John."

"Maybe, sir; God knows. But I'm an old chap, that's certain, and it can't be long before I shall see the King in His beauty."

"'Thine eyes shall see the King in His beauty, they shall behold the land that is very far off,'" quoted the child, the soft, musical tones of his voice going straight to his companion's heart.

"Aye, aye, sir, that's it. It used to be my mother's favourite verse, and I've always minded it."

"She died so many years agone that I've lost count o' the time, Master Jack. She lies in the churchyard yonder."

"Theodore's mother is buried there, too—he told me. I think it is very pleasant to be alive—that is, sometimes. Of course it's not nice if you're in pain."

The old man shook his head, and glanced pityingly at the thin, little face, and the beautiful brown eyes, that looked far too big and bright.

"I sometimes think," John interrupted, "that, knowing our weakness, maybe the Lord won't judge us so much by what we've done, as by what we've tried to do. If we do our best, that's what God wants; He won't blame us for what we've left undone, if we try our hardest. My mother used to say the greatest praise Christ ever gave was to that poor woman who anointed His feet with ointment. You remember His disciples grumbled; I expect they felt impatient with her, and wanted her gone; but Jesus said, 'She hath done what she could.'"

"Highest praise!" said a quiet voice, and turning hastily the old man saw Mrs. Barton. She bent over her little son, and rearranged his pillows, whilst John went back to his work.

"It is past twelve, my darling. Are you thinking it is time for Theodore to be here? He is rather late to-day. Perhaps he could not say his lessons, and Miss Penelope is keeping him on that account."

"Oh, no, I don't think it's that. He did his work as usual last night. Oh, mother, have you seen Theo imitate Miss Penelope?"

"Oh, it's so funny. He screws up his mouth small, and makes his eyes very round, and talks in a cross, snappy sort of voice!"

"But that's not true. Why should Theo hate Miss Penelope, because she does her best to teach him?"

Mrs. Barton was silent. She did her best to like her husband's aunts, and succeeded as far as the elder sister was concerned. But at the same time she well knew that in their different ways they put Theodore against her: Miss Penelope intentionally, she was afraid, and Miss Selina from sheer lack of tact. For, sorrowfully, Mrs. Barton was obliged to acknowledge that she knew but little more of Theodore, after living three months under the same roof with him, than she had the first day of her arrival. The boy was perfectly respectful and polite, but he never talked freely to his stepmother.

Mr. Barton had not been in the habit of seeing much of his little son, but even he could not help noticing that Theodore purposely kept in the background.

The stepbrothers were true friends. Jack loved Theodore dearly, and admired him for possessing the qualities he lacked himself; whilst Theodore in return was growing to love Jack best of all the world, with an affection that had sprung from purest pity in the first instance, but was daily becoming stronger and deeper.

There were days when Jack lay moaning in bed, racked and tortured with pain. On such occasions Theodore's footstep was noiseless as it passed the sufferer's door; his usually loud, clear voice hushed to a whisper. Then would follow a time of utter weakness for poor Jack, when, free from pain, he could bear to hear his mother read or sing to him, and would listen with a patient, placid smile, whilst Theodore recounted the tale of some wonderful adventure that had befallen him, for Theodore was always having adventures. He would be thrown from his pony, and fall unhurt; once whilst fishing, he had stumbled into the river, and had been fished out himself by a gamekeeper, none the worse for his ducking; and on another occasion, when endeavouring to rob a wood-pigeon's nest of its eggs, he had slipped, and returned home with a scarred and bleeding face, much to the alarm of Jack and the anger of Jane.

"I did not get the eggs after all," Theodore had lamented as Jane had bathed his injured countenance.

"Oh, Theo, I'm so glad!" Jack had exclaimed. "It's so cruel to rob birds' nests, I think."

Theodore had made no answer, putting it down as one of Jack's peculiarities that he should consider birds'-nesting wrong.

Little Jack had many peculiarities, in his stepbrother's opinion. Strong, healthy Theodore found it very difficult to understand the intense shrinking from giving pain that possessed the weaker boy's tender heart. During his whole life Theodore had had no serious illness, had endured no actual suffering, therefore it was impossible he could understand the giant "Pain" as Jack did. Theodore's temper was hot and hasty, quick to be roused, and as quick to forgive. He would often throw himself into a great rage when Jane opposed some wish of his, and later, kiss her with tender affection and beg forgiveness.

Young as he was, Jack had learned to control his temper: a hasty word rarely crossed his lips; and if when he was ill he was troublesome and fretful, his repentance when he grew better, was quite touching to witness.

"Oh, Theodore," he cried on one occasion, "I do wish I could be patient, I do! I don't believe I'll ever learn to be Christ's disciple really. You know, He said, 'Whosoever doth not bear his cross, and come after Me, cannot be My disciple.' Do you think I shall ever, ever learn to bear my cross?"

"I don't know what you mean, Jack. I know you're quite brave. I should not have thought any one could be so plucky. I'm sure if I was half as bad as you are sometimes, I should simply howl," Theodore answered with candour.

"Oh no, you wouldn't! I don't believe you'd even cry ever so softly," and the soft brown eyes met the bright grey ones with a look full of loving admiration. "Still, I do try to be patient, you know I try. Mother says I must keep on trying, and then my cross will get lighter and lighter, till I shan't feel it but just the weeniest bit, and at last it will carry me to God."

"Oh, you mustn't talk of dying, Jack! I don't like it, I don't indeed! Promise you won't."

"All right, I won't, if you'd rather I didn't." And with his usual thoughtfulness for another's pleasure, Jack changed the conversation.

But Theodore could not help thinking a good deal of what Jack had said, though he tried with all his might not to do so. In a few days, however, other matters came to occupy his mind, and drove the thought of Jack's dying completely away for the time.

One morning, in the midst of a geography Theodore astonished his aunt by asking, without apparently any reference to anything that had gone before, "Aunt Pen, who was the greatest man that ever lived, should you think?"

"I—I'm sure I do not know, Theodore. What queer questions you ask, to be sure! The greatest man that ever lived? Well, really that is a wide question."

"A question that could be answered in many ways. The Duke of Wellington was a great man—one of the greatest men of his day. General Gordon was a great man, too; and oh! dear me, there have been hundreds of great men. Each age has its shining lights, its—"

Theodore obeyed, but he was far from satisfied. When twelve o'clock came, and he was free, he found his stepmother in the garden chatting to Miss Selina.

"Well, Theodore, lessons over?" queried Mrs. Barton. "Then we will go home together. I think I must say goodbye now, Miss Selina."

"I am very glad Jack is so much better," Miss Selina said cordially. "Come and see me again very soon. I like an informal call such as you make, my dear."

Mrs. Barton and her husband's elder aunt were on excellent terms by this time, in spite of the latter's preconceived prejudice against her nephew's wife.

As Theodore walked along by his stepmother's side, it occurred to him to ask the same question of her that he had put to Miss Penelope a short while since.

"I want to ask you something," he began, looking up into her face with earnest, searching eyes.

She paused, and gazed at him in silence for a moment before she answered with serious directness, "The Lord Jesus Christ."

"Very brave. He suffered a death of shame for the sake of a wicked world. He gave His life for sinners. 'God commandeth His love toward us, in that while we were yet sinners Christ died for us.' Oh, He was the greatest man that ever lived! Brave, true, faithful, gentle, loving, the founder of a mighty kingdom, the—"

"Yes, a kingdom that has been growing and gaining in power for nineteen hundred years. I mean the Kingdom of God, that Christ preached and founded."

"Jack thinks a good deal of Jesus," the boy remarked musingly. "I think he loves Him better, yes, better than you."

"I could not be to Jack what his Saviour is. It is Jesus who helps him to be patient under suffering, who teaches him to bear his pain with resignation. And, Theodore, when my darling boy is called away from me, I shall not be able to go with him, but there is One—the great Physician—who will be with him when he passes through the valley of the shadow of death."

"Why do you talk so?" he cried passionately. "How can you? how can you? I cannot bear to think of Jack's dying. He is better, isn't he?"

The child's voice was choked with piteous sobs that he strove manfully to subdue.

"Dear Theodore," his stepmother said soothingly, "do not cry. God knows what is best, He does indeed! You must try to feel with me that Jack is in the hands of One whose love and care will never fail. We must trust in Him at all times. Yes, yes," as Theodore shook his head, "I know it is hard. You must try to believe that God knows best; you will, will you not?"

But Theodore made no answer, and they walked the remainder of the way to the Hall in silence.

CHAPTER V.

JACK'S LONELINESS; AND THEODORE'S LOVE FOR HIS STEPBROTHER.

BRIGHTLY the June sunshine shone into the nursery at Afton Hall, filling the room with its genial warmth; softly the balmy air wafted through the open windows, bearing with it the scent of roses and new-mown hay.

Jane sat sewing, every now and then glancing at Jack, who lay, with the sunbeams turning his fair locks into brightest gold, and lighting up his pale little face.

"Oh, the beautiful sunshine!" he cried. "How I love it! Listen, Jane; what is it I hear?"

"I wish, oh! how I wish I was with them. I suppose Theo is there; he said he should ride home on the top of a waggon of hay; do you think he will?"

"Very likely. The men will look after him. There's not one among the lot that could bear to see him hurt in any way. He will be their master one day, you know."

"Yes. Master Theodore's his father's heir. You can look out of the window, and as far as you can see, and further, is Mr. Barton's own property, and will be his son's. Heaven bless the dear boy! There never was another so handsome, so good!"

"I thought you said he was very naughty this morning, Jane," Jack remarked in a puzzled tone.

"Well, maybe he was at the time I spoke, but he's never naughty long. He has his mother's sweet, forgiving nature."

"Oh, Jane," Jack cried, coaxingly, "do tell me about Theo's mother! What was she like?"

"Like a beautiful angel, Master Jack. Her hair was as fine as spun silk, and as golden as your own. Her eyes were large and bright, in colour a deep blue; and her face, with its kind, gentle look, always gained her friends."

"That she was. When she died the whole parish mourned; and as for Mr. Barton, there was no comforting him. He never saw Master Theodore for some weeks, until one day I walked into the room where he was, with the dear little lamb in my arms. Will you please to look at your son, sir,' I said, all of a tremble, and he went as white as a sheet. 'Take him away!' he cried, but I wouldn't. Then I told him as how my mistress, some days before she died, said if the baby was a boy she would like him to be called Theodore, and if a girl, Theodora—because, Master Jack, those names mean 'The gift of God.' Well, the master listened, and agreed that the child should be baptised Theodore, as his wife had wished; but he only glanced once at the baby, and turned away. As time went on he got accustomed to seeing the dear lamb about, and I believe now he's very proud of him, as indeed he ought to be. Mr. Barton has a real kind heart, and he gives Master Theodore all he could possibly wish."

"He is very kind," Jack agreed. "When he carries me downstairs he doesn't hurt me at all scarcely."

Jane nodded. She had been talking, hoping to interest her little companion, and keep his thoughts from the happy party in the hayfield. Apparently she had succeeded, for Jack looked thoughtful, but by no means sorrowful.

"Jane, I am so glad you have told me what Theodore's name means," he remarked at length. "I must tell mother. Theodore—the gift of God—I think it's splendid!"

Meanwhile Theodore himself was romping in the hayfield, totally forgetful of his stepbrother at home. The men worked late, and it was quite dusk before the merry party broke up.

Theodore hastened home, and, rushing into the house, tore upstairs as quickly as he could, and into the nursery. But Jane was not there; and Jack, tired out with the heat of the day, had been put to bed. Theodore repaired to his stepbrother's room, and peeped cautiously in.

No answer. The room was nearly dark, and the blinds drawn down. Theodore tip-toed up to the bed, and leaned over the little figure that lay thereon. Jack was not asleep; on the contrary, he was very wide awake, but his pillow was wet with tears, and his breath came in sobbing gasps.

"Oh, I say, Jack, what's the matter?" Theodore inquired, in great concern. "Shall I call your mother?"

Theodore obeyed, and stood patiently by till Jack was able to still his sobs. Then he took a very grimy-looking handkerchief from the depths of his trousers pocket, and wiped his stepbrother's eyes.

"No, no; my back's all right. I am very silly. Mother's away, and—and you were away."

"I know, I know," with a little gasping sob; "and I—I've been so—so lonely, and—and miserable."

"Oh, Jane was very kind! Only, I missed you, Theo, and I thought of you and the other boys playing—"

A sudden, comprehensive light broke across Theodore's mind, and he felt a sharp pang of regret that his stepbrother was not like other boys. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he took one of the little invalid's hands in his strong, brown fingers, and there was a silence for a while, broken at length by Jack.

"Oh, I think you do! Don't think me very selfish, Theo. Do you think it is wrong to wish to be like you—strong and well?"

"It is hard for you, Jack. I wish—I wish; I know!" with a quick, excited change of manner.

"Don't be lonely any more, Jack. I'm here, and I'll stay with you as long as you like. Do you feel at all sleepy?"

Theodore complied readily. Jack put his arms around Theodore's neck, and pressed his hot, feverish lips to the other's cool, firm cheek.

And very sweetly, in his clear treble, Theodore sang the hymn correctly through to the end.

Attracted by the sound of the sweet boyish voice, Jane had come upstairs. She now entered the room, and Jack having fallen asleep, she bore Theodore off to supper and bed. But Theodore did not quickly close his eyes and drift into the land of dreams, as he usually did. He lay very quiet and still for more than an hour, his brain working busily; then, knowing he was now safe from a visit from Jane, he slipped out of bed, and swiftly dressed himself. Next he went to the window, and after noiselessly pulling up the blind, cautiously opened it.

The night air was sweet with summer scents, and blew freshly against Theodore's face, cooling his flushed, sunburnt cheeks. He leaned his elbows on the sill, and lifted his eyes to the sky, where the moon was shining brightly. Presently he turned his gaze to the garden, where the tall madonna lilies reared their stately heads; he could smell their delicious fragrance, and he fancied they looked like ghosts in the moonlight.

As his eyes wandered to the grey church tower in the distance, a sense of loneliness crept over him, such as he had never experienced before; and he thought of the grave wherein his mother lay, and wished sorrowfully that she had not died. If she had lived, she would have loved him, he knew, even as Mrs. Barton loved her little son. Why had God taken her away from him? Was it really because she had been too good to live, as Jane had often told him, unconsciously magnifying the good qualities of her dead mistress? He did not think that a sufficient reason, for other people were good, and often lived to be quite old.

"I'm sure John Bawdon is good, every one says so," Theodore mused. "Father says he's honest and faithful, and one of the best men he knows, and yet God has let him live all these years. No, that can't be it. I wish I knew."

Another hour passed, and still the boy waited by the open window. At length, however, he heard the sound of carriage wheels, and following out a plan he had made, he hastened downstairs, and into the room where he knew his stepmother and father would presently come.

The lamp was lowered, so that, on entering, Mr. and Mrs. Barton did not notice the child. They stood on the rug by the fireplace, talking and laughing about the events of the evening. She had thrown off her wraps, and looked very beautiful in her soft white gown, trimmed with filmy lace. As Theodore watched her face, flushed and animated at present, he did not wonder that Jack loved his mother so dearly, or that his father was so much happier now-a-days. The boy crossed the room towards them, and each turned on him with an exclamation of surprise.

"You did not see me when you came in," he explained. "I have been waiting for you."

"Is anything wrong?" Mrs. Barton asked anxiously, her pretty colour fading somewhat. "Jack is not ill, is he?"

She drew a breath of relief, and then, turning to her husband, remarked, "You must think me unnecessarily anxious about Jack."

"It is quite natural you should be," he answered, with a smile. Then turning to Theodore, he laid his hand on his shoulder as he enquired kindly, "Why are you not in bed and asleep, my son?"

"I did go to bed, but when all was quiet I got up again, and looked out of the window till I heard the carriage coming; then I came downstairs. Jane thinks I'm in bed now, and oh, wouldn't she scold if she knew!"

Theodore raised his eyes to his father's face, and meeting a look of amusement, laughed merrily.

"And may I ask why you thus run the risk of Jane's displeasure?" Mr. Barton asked.

"Is it to be a secret between you and me, Theodore, or may she," indicating his wife, "stay and hear?"

The boy looked at his stepmother. Her brown eyes were watching him earnestly, and a little sadly. They reminded him of Jack's, and he answered quickly, "Oh, she may hear if she likes!"

"Now, then, what is it? Have you tired of Jigger, and want me to get you a bigger pony?"

"I have been in the hayfields nearly all day, with the vicarage children," the boy began, "and Jack has been at home alone. I did not think he might be lonely. I did not think about him at all. But he was lonely; he told me so. I want to give a party in the lower meadow to-morrow; and, father, don't you think, as it is so close, we might wheel Jack in his chair as far as the gate, and then you could carry him very carefully, and put him on a comfortable seat in the hay. Oh, I'll make him such a cosy nest!"

"Oh, father, thank you! Jack will be so glad. But you mustn't tell him. He must go out in his chair, just as usual, and we will wheel him carefully down the road till we come to the lower meadow; and then you must come along, as if by chance, you know, and carry him the rest of the way—won't you?"

Mr. Barton looked down at the eager, animated face, so like his own in features, so unlike in expression, and a glow of fatherly love filled his heart for his child. Never, he thought, had he seen Theodore look so handsome, so noble. The little fellow's eyes shone brightly at the thought of the pleasure in store for his stepbrother; for his affection for Jack, which had commenced out of protecting pity, was fast developing into deep, unselfish love.

"A thousand thousand thanks, father! It must be a secret, mind. You will not tell?" Theodore asked, turning to Mrs. Barton.

She shook her head, smiling; but, to the boy's astonishment, there were tears in her eyes, and she seemed incapable of speech. Satisfied and happy, Theodore said "Good night," and went upstairs, taking care to step softly, that Jane should not hear him.

He was in bed, and almost asleep, when his stepmother passed his door on her way to her son's room. He knew she always visited Jack the last thing before going to bed herself, and presently he heard her returning. To his surprise, instead of passing his room, as usual, she entered. He kept his eyes closed, feigning sleep, and wondering what she wanted. He knew she stood by his bedside, looking down upon him. Then he heard her sigh, and then a pair of soft lips kissed him gently, tenderly; and opening his eyes, he saw by the moonlight a beautiful face looking at him—oh, surely as his own mother, had she lived, might have looked at her son! That look filled him with strange, joyful wonderment that was almost pain. He hastily buried his head under the bedclothes, and, mistaking the meaning of the action, Mrs. Barton turned sadly and sorrowfully away.

CHAPTER VI.

IN THE HAYFIELD.

MERRIMENT in the hayfield was at its height. A group of youngsters, including Theodore and the vicarage children—two girls of ten and twelve, and a boy of six—were engaged in a thorough romping game, whilst Jack, enthroned on a beautiful couch of softest hay, watched them with contented, happy eyes. Mr. Barton was at a little distance with the haymakers, as was the vicar—a big middle-aged man, with a kindly face, merry blue eyes, and a deep resounding voice.

Mrs. Barton and Jane had spread a table-cloth on the ground, fastening it securely down with stones and presently the tea was laid, and the children stopped their game, to seat themselves in a ring close to Jack, so that he might join in their eager, joyous conversation. The little tongues grew silent as the business of tea progressed, but their appetites somewhat satisfied, the chatter began again. Then Mr. Barton and the vicar joined the group, and demanded their share of the good things. Theodore, who considered himself the master of the ceremonies, waited upon every one assiduously, taking especial care of his stepbrother.

The picnic in the hayfield.

"Are you sure you are enjoying yourself, Jack?" he would ask; and getting an answer in the affirmative, would be satisfied for about five minutes, when he would put the same question again, and receive the same reply.

Once he approached Mrs. Barton, and in low tones asked her: "Do you think Jack is enjoying himself?"

"I am sure he is, Theodore; he never had such a treat in his life before. It makes me very happy to see him looking so well and bright."

"Yes. Everything is going off splendidly, isn't it? I was afraid Aunt Selina and Aunt Penelope might turn up, but I don't think they will now."

"Oh! Aunt Penelope said this morning she would rather like to see the haymakers at work. I was careful not to tell her we were going to have tea here this afternoon!"

The foregoing conversation had taken place shortly before tea, therefore Mrs. Barton was not surprised when the meal was in full swing to see her husband's aunts entering the field. Theodore was filled with consternation at the sight of them, which he made no attempt to hide, for he exclaimed hastily:

"Theodore!" his father said sternly, in accents of rebuke; but the boy scowled rebelliously.

"Do not let us disturb you, pray!" Miss Selina said, after she and her sister had shaken hands with the elder ones of the party, and nodded to the children. "We have been to the Hall, and learning where you all were, thought we would look in on you for a few minutes."

"And now you must have some tea," Mrs. Barton said. "Children, cannot you make two comfortable seats?"

So two fresh mounds of hay were arranged, and presently the unexpected visitors were seated and sipping their tea complacently. Miss Selina wore the old brown silk gown that every one knew; but Miss Penelope's toilette was very juvenile—white muslin, blue bows, and a sailor hat.

"Well, I'll call to-morrow, and cheer your wife up a bit; it's wearisome work nursing a sick child. By the way, I wanted to speak to you—"

And Miss Selina and the vicar drifted into a discussion upon parish matters; whilst Miss Penelope turned her attention to Jack.

"It was Theodore who thought of it," he answered. "Wasn't it splendid of him? And father carried me so gently that I was not a bit hurt."

Miss Penelope knitted her brows, and looked from Mr. Barton to Theodore. She had not known before that Jack was in the habit of addressing Mr. Barton as "father," and she was surprised that Theodore, who was at her side, and apparently listening to the conversation, did not seem to resent, or even to notice it.

"Theo arranged everything so that it should be a great surprise for me," Jack continued confidentially, in his serious, old-fashioned way. "A hayfield is a lovely place, I think. Oh, what is it?"

Miss Penelope had given a little scream, and Theodore, who had been watching her with a mischievous look on his face, openly smiled.

"There is something crawling on my neck!" she cried. "Oh, Theodore, see what it is, and take it off! there's a dear boy!"

"All right; keep still, Aunt Pen. Yes, I see it. Keep still, or it will crawl down the neck of your dress, and then—"

But Theodore did not hurry. He very carefully and slowly removed something from the back of Miss Penelope's neck, and stood looking at her laughingly.

"A beetle, a beautiful green beetle," and opening his hand, he disclosed the insect, whereupon Miss Penelope gave a little horrified shriek, and the children could not help a roar of amusement.

"How foolish to make a fuss about such a trifle!" Miss Selina cried. "Really, Penelope, it is almost childish."

Miss Penelope looked resentful at this speech, and she sat in silence for a while.

The children having finished tea, Mrs. Barton sent them off to play again; and the vicar and Mr. Barton returned to the haymakers, whilst Jane packed the cups and plates into baskets, and returned with them to the Hall.

"Now I call this very pleasant," Miss Selina remarked. "What a pretty sight, to be sure. Why, it was years and years ago since I had tea in a hayfield. I suppose this is your first experience of anything of the sort, little man?" she said, glancing smilingly at Jack.

"He thought of it for Jack's sake," Mrs. Barton explained. "Was it not good of him? So many boys of his age would not have cared for another's pleasure."

"He is a good boy," Miss Selina agreed. "And so you two are great friends?" turning to Jack again.

"Just like brothers, in fact," Miss Penelope remarked in a tone that made her sister glance at her sharply.

"It is a great gratification to us that it is so," Mrs. Barton said quietly. "I think each is happy in the companionship of the other."

"And Jack calls your husband 'father'?" Miss Penelope queried sweetly. "Now, how nice that is!"

"No, he does not," was the prompt answer. "No one has ever asked him to do so. His father would not suggest it; neither would I. Some day, I believe, Theodore will call me 'mother' of his own free will."

"To be sure, to be sure," Miss Selina agreed briskly. "The boy's not one to be driven an inch, but I believe he can be led by kindness and love. Now, you know, I am nothing if not outspoken," using her pet phrase, "and I always speak my mind. I see well enough that Theodore stands aloof from you, and you are fearful lest your will should clash with his, but I really do not think you need be. If I were you, I would exert my authority over him a little more. I would not let him be so much with that Tom Blake."

"He is the blacksmith's little boy," Jack hastened to explain. "I have never seen him, but Theodore has told me all about him."

"I do not think there is much to his credit to tell," Miss Selina continued. "He is one of the worst boys I know, always staying away from school on one excuse or another, always telling falsehoods and swearing, and a regular bully."

"Oh, dear!" Mrs. Barton cried in dismayed accents; "and you say Theodore goes about with him? I don't think his father knows it."

"Probably not; but Jane must, and she ought to have put a stop to it ages ago. I expect, though, Theodore wheedled around her to let him have his own way."

Jack looked thoroughly uncomfortable, for he knew Theodore was often in Tom Blake's company, and he also knew that Jane was much distressed at the fact, though she had not sufficient control over the wayward boy to prevent it.

"Do you know anything about this matter, Jack?" Mrs. Barton enquired, noticing her little son's uneasy countenance.

"Not much, mother," he replied, rather evasively. "Of course I know Theo goes out with Tom Blake sometimes—often," correcting himself truthfully.

"No—that is, she does not like it. She wanted Theo to promise not to have anything more to do with Tom, but he would not promise."

"Just as I thought!" Miss Selina exclaimed. "Jane gives way to him in everything. Now," turning to Mrs. Barton, who looked much disturbed, "you see how necessary it is that some one holding more authority than a servant should interfere."

Mrs. Barton sighed as she turned the matter over in her mind, and came to the conclusion that it was her place to speak to Theodore about his questionable friend.

Presently Miss Selina and Miss Penelope took their departure, and then little Jack turned a distressed face to his mother.

"Oh, mother!" he cried, "what shall I do? I ought not to have told you anything about Theo's going with Tom Blake. Theo will be so angry."

"Of course Theo couldn't promise not to have anything more to do with Tom Blake, if he meant to all the time."

"No, certainly not. But remember, Jack, it is Theodore's duty to obey Jane whilst he is under her charge."

"I know. But Theo wouldn't tell a lie, mother; and you see he doesn't mean to give up Tom Blake—he says he is such a nice boy."

Jack hung his head guiltily, mindful of many things that Theodore had repeated to him as clever speeches of Tom's.

Mrs. Barton did not press the question, and presently the party in the hayfield broke up.

"This has been the happiest day of my life," the little invalid confided to his stepbrother later on, "and I've been thanking God for it."

"It has been jolly," Theodore replied. "But what a queer chap you are, to thank God for it; you're as funny as old John Bawdon—that's just his way of talking."

Jack was by no means offended at this remark; he was accustomed now to Theodore's flippant manner of speaking. Instead, he continued:

"Mother says we should never forget to thank God. She says we're always ready to ask Him for things, and often forget to thank Him. But I haven't forgotten to-day. I feel so grateful, and as if I love Him so dearly. There's one thing I never forget to thank Him for; do you know what that is, Theo?"

And Theodore made no answer, only looked in wonderment at his stepbrother's bright, loving face, and decided that he was very peculiar—a decision he came to scores of times in a week.

So the happiest day of Jack's life came to a close; and when the little fellow went tired to bed, he fell asleep quickly, and dreamt a wonderful dream that he never forgot: for in it he thought he no longer lay watching the other children, but ran about and played with them.

CHAPTER VII.

THEODORE AND HIS STEPMOTHER.

ONE afternoon, nearly a week later, upon entering the house by a side door, Mrs. Barton came upon Theodore and Jane both talking loudly and excitedly.

"I shall tell master, and see what he'll say!" she overheard Jane exclaim, and then came Theodore's quick retort, in enraged accents—

"What is it?" Mrs. Barton demanded, as she came forward, her usually gentle voice severe and peremptory.

Theodore turned a flushed, angry face towards her, whilst Jane changed colour, and hesitated to explain.

"What is it?" she asked again. "Theodore, how dare you speak to Jane in that way?"

Mrs. Barton laid a firm hand on the boy's shoulder; and Jane burst into a storm of tears as she sobbed out:

"I'm sure I've done nothing to make Master Theodore so angry. I always try to do my duty!"

"I am sure you do," Mrs. Barton assured her. "Now, tell me what is the meaning of this scene?"

Whereupon Jane explained that Theodore had intended going out fishing with Tom Blake, and she had tried to prevent him. Mrs. Barton listened in silence. The case was just as she had imagined; and she now saw the time had come for her to put a check upon her stepson.

"I am very sorry Master Theodore has behaved so rudely to you, Jane; and he will be ashamed himself when he comes to think the matter over. You were quite right in not allowing him to go with Tom Blake—he is not at all a suitable companion for Master Theodore. You may go now. Theodore, you come with me."

Jane was glad to be dismissed, but went upstairs feeling uneasy, and somewhat frightened, as she thought of the interview that was to take place between Theodore and his stepmother.

Meanwhile Mrs. Barton led Theodore into the library, and, closing the door, released her hold of him. For some minutes there was silence, during which time Theodore's temper was rising, and Mrs. Barton was praying for help to use such words as would appeal to the boy's sense of right and duty.

"Sit down, Theodore," she said, gently and kindly. "I want to have a talk to you about this Tom Blake; but first of all I must tell you that I cannot allow you to call Jane names. It is unmanly to speak thus to a woman. Perhaps no one ever pointed out this to you—"

"Because you would not listen to her, or obey her. Theodore, such conduct is not honourable. Jane is responsible for you, and if you will not do as she tells you she must appeal to someone with greater authority. Now, she is quite right in not allowing you to go out with this Tom Blake; if your father was consulted on the matter he would most distinctly forbid it!"

"Because the boy is not a fitting companion for you. I do not wish to get you into trouble, Theodore, and therefore I shall be quite satisfied to take your word that you will avoid Tom Blake all you possibly can. Will you promise this?"

"Someone has been telling me the truth about him. He is a bad boy; he swears, and tells lies. Is it not so?"

But Theodore was furiously angry. This was the first time his stepmother had ventured to interfere with his doings. His fierce grey eyes met hers, and he read in her steady gaze a look he did not like, a look that told him she meant him to obey her.

"A great deal. It hurts me to think my husband's son should care for low company. Understand me, if this Tom Blake was a good boy I should not object in the least to your going about with him; it is simply because he is not good that I do object. Dear Theodore, you must see it is right. Do promise me you will do as I wish!"

"No! no! What has it to do with you? Why do you interfere with me? No one ever did until you came! You are not my mother, and I won't stand it! I hate you! I do! Yes, I hate you!"

"You do not know what you are saying, Theodore," Mrs. Barton said quietly, though her face became very pale. "You cannot mean what you say!"

"Yes, I do! I do! I hate you! I will go with Tom Blake whenever I like. He is waiting for me now, and I shall go, I tell you!"

Theodore was moving towards the door, but to his surprise his stepmother interposed between it and him.

"No, you will not go," she said, and the boy, even in his passion was quick to note the ring of power in her tones. "I shall prevent you. Go to your own room at once, and remain there till I give you permission to leave it."

Theodore gave a shriek of defiance as he listened, and then losing complete control over himself, he stamped round the room, raving at the top of his voice, venting on his stepmother all the pent-up evil thoughts he had harboured against her during the last few months.

She uttered no word, only watched him sorrowfully, marvelling that so young a child could hate so bitterly; then she went up to him, her quiet face showing little of the pain he had caused her.

The words died on the boy's lips as the door opened and his father entered. Mr. Barton surveyed his son in silence, a dark flush of anger crossing his face; whilst Theodore's spirit quailed guiltily, though he was still determined to brazen the matter out.

Mrs. Barton in a few words gave her husband to understand that Theodore persisted in an act of disobedience, and she was insisting that he should go to his own room, and remain there for a punishment.

The boy repeated the words, but scarcely had he done so than he felt himself in a strong grasp, and was dragged out of the room and upstairs before he had time to understand what was happening. In another minute he found himself seated on the floor in his own bedroom, and heard the door closed and locked from the outside.

He was stupefied with amazement. Never had his father interfered with him before, and he immediately saw that he had made a mistake in defying his stepmother. But he was not sorry yet, though he wept and sobbed himself perfectly sick. Nobody came to condole with him, and he felt he was hardly used, especially as tea-time passed, and no tea was brought to him.

"It is all her fault," he told himself, blaming his stepmother. "Of course, father would take her part."

He wondered why Jane did not come to see him, or at any rate to speak to him, if the key was taken out of the door; and regretted he had called her a sneak.

As the evening dragged on, his angry passions cooled down, and a feeling of self-pity took their place. Over the mantlepiece hung an enlarged photograph of his mother, and as his eyes rested on it, he almost fancied the sweet face smiled on him; and he wondered if she knew how badly he wanted her, and how lonely he felt. And then, in his imagination, the smile changed to a look of reproachful sorrow, and for the first time his heart smote him for his conduct that day.

Would no one ever come to him? The long summer evening was closing in at last, and still he was left alone.

It was his stepmother's voice outside the door, and he answered quickly, "Yes, yes; oh, let me out!"

"I cannot; your father has the key. May I go to him and say you are sorry?" she asked anxiously.

Theodore did not answer, and she pleaded again: "You are sorry, are you not? Do let me fetch your father. Shall I?"

He listened to her retreating footsteps, and it seemed ages before the key at length turned in the lock, and his father entered the room.

It was a forlorn-looking little figure, with pale cheeks and swollen eyelids, that stood shrinking before Mr. Barton's stern gaze.

"It is not my forgiveness you want, Theodore. It was my wife you openly defied and insulted. When I first brought her home, she was ready to love you dearly, and would have done her best to fill the place of your dead mother. She has always been kind and considerate to you, and how have you repaid her? This afternoon I was ashamed of my son."

"I have heard the cause of the disturbance from Jane; and, once for all, let me tell you to avoid Tom Blake. Is that plain? Do you understand, and do you mean to obey?"

"If there is ever a repetition of the scene I partly witnessed to-day, I shall send you to a boarding-school at once. I should have dealt with you much more severely, if my wife had not begged me to be lenient with you. You had better go and try to make your peace with her. She is in the drawing-room."

Theodore turned away, and walked slowly downstairs, his proud spirit quite humbled for the time.

"I am sorry I behaved so badly," he said, going straight up to his stepmother, who was seated in a low chair by the window. As she turned and looked at him, he saw the traces of recent tears on her face. "I am sorry," he repeated. "Will you please forgive me?"

His heart was touched by the gentle sadness of her voice, and he went on quickly:

"It was not true what I said, and it was very rude of me. I don't hate you, really."

Mrs. Barton made no reply, and Theodore did not know that she restrained a strong impulse to take him in her arms and kiss him. He was conscious of a touch of reserve in her manner that he had never felt before, and it made him uneasy.

Theodore winced at her reply, and stood hesitating, whilst Mrs. Barton turned her head away, and looked out of the window.

"If your sorrow is real, my dear, you will try to curb your temper. You must not continue to allow it to conquer you, or you will always be a slave to it."

"Oh, yes, you can! Pray to God to help you; and when you feel the evil passion getting the better of you, fight it down valiantly. Say to yourself, I can do all things through Christ, which strengtheneth me.'"

"And ask God to forgive you. Oh, Theodore! you have made me very unhappy; think of the sorrow you must have caused Jesus."

"Dear Theodore, we are all naughty; but Jesus loves us, and wants us to try and do better for His sake. Will you try?"

"Quite sure. Now, good night. Run away and have your supper; you must be very hungry. Jack is anxiously waiting for you, and so is Jane—poor Jane! Good night, my dear."

A few moments Mr. Barton joined his wife, and leaning over the back of her chair, kissed her softly on the forehead.

"Do you think I shall ever win his love?" she asked wistfully. "Sometimes I almost despair."

"You must not do that," he answered fondly. "Some day Theodore will love you as dearly as your own boy does. You will see that I shall prove a true prophet."

CHAPTER VIII.

THEODORE'S DISOBEDIENCE, AND THE RESULT.

FOR some days after Theodore's exhibition of disobedience and passion, he was very subdued and quiet, treating Jane with great consideration, and spending most of his spare time in Jack's company.

Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Barton referred to Tom Blake, and Theodore felt he was quite forgiven for his naughtiness. But the boy could not overcome the slight reserve that his stepmother seemed to have wrapped around her.

Hitherto he had been content to keep out of her way as much as possible; now he often sought her presence, with the idea of wiping out from her mind the bitter words he had hurled at her in his ungovernable rage. But he found he could not. When he and Jack sat listening to a story from her lips,—for she often drew on her imagination for their amusement,—he would catch her eye, and know that she remembered.

As time went on, he grew to daily respect her more and more. He saw how she brightened the once dull house; he noticed how his father was happy when she was near; and he began to understand the tender affection with which Jack regarded her. He had not troubled as to what she had thought of him; he had not cared whether she loved him or not; but now slowly there was creeping into his heart a desire to obliterate any bad impression he might have made upon her.

Mrs. Barton's quiet influence for good was, felt at The Nest too. Miss Selina had no faults to find with the management of the new mistress at the Hall; Miss Penelope soon ceased to begrudge her the personal charms she had at first refused to admit, and even went so far as to acknowledge her "nice-looking."

Much to Theodore's astonishment, he found Jane upholding Mrs. Barton's authority, and quoting her opinions on different matters; the truth being that Jane was beginning to find her young master rather beyond her powers of control, and was really glad to have someone to whom she could go for assistance, or advice. Theodore managed to keep out of Tom Blake's way for many weeks, but one morning during the August holidays he met him close to the entrance to the Hall grounds. Theodore nodded, not meaning to stop, but Tom paused, and then, of course, Theodore had to do the same.

"You didn't keep your promise about the fishing," was Tom's next remark, with a sly wink.

"No. I was very sorry. I would have let you know if I could. I didn't mean to break my promise!"

"I suppose they stopped you," he said, with a grin. "I guess Mrs. Barton thought you too much of a baby to go out without a nurse, eh?"

"I don't think I care for fishing much," Theodore remarked, with a would-be careless air, and ignoring the sneer conveyed in the other's remark.

Tom laughed in a manner which had an irritating effect upon his listener, and seemed to be vastly amused.

"You don't like fishing much? Oh, indeed! I s'pose you like being made a molly-coddle of like your stepbrother, eh?"

"Jack is not a molly-coddle!" Theodore flashed out indignantly, now thoroughly angry.

Tom drew from his pocket a packet of cigarettes, and carefully selecting one, proceeded to light it, whilst the younger boy watched him with somewhat reluctant admiration.

"Well, then," the elder boy said persuasively, "try one, it can't 'arm you. Let's go and sit down in the shade somewhere."

Theodore rather reluctantly followed Tom into the lower meadow, where now stood a large hay-rick, in the shadow of which the boys seated themselves. Now, no one had ever told Theodore not to smoke; but all the same he had an idea that neither his father nor his stepmother would like him to do so. Yet when he watched Tom puffing away, and apparently thoroughly enjoying his cigarette, he told himself there really could be no possible harm in his trying one, just to see what it was like. So he allowed himself to be persuaded; and, after much coughing, because the smoke would go down his throat, and up the back of his nose, he succeeded in getting through one cigarette.

Then Tom suddenly remembered that his father would be wanting him, and made his way home, chuckling to himself as he went, whilst Theodore slowly rose to his feet, and turned towards the Hall.

But how queer he felt,—so sick, and everything seemed to be spinning round. He never quite remembered how he crawled home, but when at length he staggered into the nursery, Jane uttered an exclamation of dismay, and Jack gave a shrill scream of fright at the sight of his ghastly face.

"Oh, Master Theodore, my darling; what is it?" Jane cried, as she rang the bell violently, and caught the boy as he staggered, and would have fallen.

In a few minutes nearly everyone in the house had rushed to the nursery, the servants with frightened faces, Mrs. Barton pale and trembling, and her husband no less alarmed. Jane held the boy in her arms, calling him by every endearing name she could think of, until Mr. Barton took him from her, and laid him on a sofa.

Theodore looked, as he said, very ill; but as his father leaned over him a sudden suspicion made him ask:

"Doing?" Theodore repeated faintly, looking round on the assembled faces. "Doing? Nothing—only—smoking."

There was a moment's dead silence. Then Theodore saw the sympathy on the servants' faces give way to ill-suppressed amusement; and his father remarked, in decidedly relieved accents:

"So you've been smoking, have you? And you feel very ill? I can quite believe it. Don't be frightened, you are not so bad as you fancy, and you'll be better soon. Cheer up, Jack! There's nothing to be alarmed about. I think, Theodore, bed is the best place for you."

The faithful Jane, much relieved as to the cause of her darling's illness, and, assisted by Mrs. Barton, soon had Theodore tucked up in bed, where he lay very sick, and suffering badly in his head for some hours.

At last he fell asleep, so that he never heard the stir and commotion that was going on in the house, for his sleep was deep and heavy; and when he awoke he thought it must be tea-time, he was so very hungry.

Then he remembered all that had taken place, the look of mingled relief and anger on his father's face when he had confessed he had been smoking, his stepmother's evident amazement, and the amused countenances of the servants. His cheeks burned with shame; and he determined to get up at once, and tell his father all about it.

Very slowly, for he felt weak and rather lightheaded, he arose and dressed, and made his way to the nursery. Jack was there alone, so intently and eagerly looking out of the window, that he never noticed his stepbrother till he reached his side.

But Theodore did not answer. He stood gazing out of the window with wide-open, horror-stricken eyes; for there, in the lower meadow, was a volume of smoke ascending from the new hay-rick.

"It is on fire," Jack explained. "Isn't it a pity? Nearly every one is there, trying to put the fire out."

"She's downstairs, getting tea ready; all the servants are gone to the lower meadow. Father is there, and I think mother is—"

"You must be ready for your tea, Theodore, for you had no dinner," she said. "Are you better?"

"Ah, yes. I hope you will not be tempted to smoke again; it certainly made you very bad," she said, with a smile that caused Theodore to blush. Then she added more seriously, "You must have known it was wrong to smoke, and whoever gave you tobacco was much to blame."

Mrs. Barton thought it wisest to let the subject drop for the time, meaning to talk seriously to her little stepson when Jack was not present. The boys watched the burning hay-rick for some minutes in silence, but at last Theodore exclaimed excitedly, "Oh, I must go and see the fire-engine at work!"

"No, my dear, you cannot," Mrs. Barton answered. "Your father said that on no account were you to leave the house."

"Never mind," whispered Jack. "At least—I mean you won't smoke again, will you?"

"Never!" was the fervent response, in accents of conviction. "I do wonder, Jack, how the rick caught on fire; it was all right this—"

Theodore paused abruptly, ashamed to acknowledge he had rested in the shade of the hay-rick to smoke that unlucky cigarette.

Meanwhile, the fire-engine from the neighbouring town was playing on the flames; but though there was plenty of water, the efforts of the willing helpers were of little avail, for there was a stiff breeze blowing, which fanned the fire, so that when night fell there was very little hay that was not thoroughly spoiled.

"'Tis a bad job," said old John Bawdon, as he walked back to the Hall by his master's side.

"It is indeed, John, especially as the rick was not insured. I cannot imagine how it caught fire."

"You know, sir, I love him dearly! I wouldn't willingly get him into trouble; but I think I ought to speak."

"Blake, the blacksmith, has been thrashing his son for smoking by the side of the rick. It seems he was passing along the road, and looking in over the hedge, saw him this very morning."

"The young rascal! You may depend he threw a lighted match unwittingly into some loose hay."

Very black indeed was the frown on Mr. Barton's brow; and seeing it, the old man, with whom Theodore was a prime favourite, was much distressed and agitated.

"Oh, be gentle with him!" he pleaded. "He is very young! I am sure he meant no harm."

"I had told him not to have anything to do with Tom Blake, and yet it seems he wilfully disobeyed me."

"Oh, sir, have patience with him! he's not used to control. Jane, she means well, but she has allowed him to have his own way so long."

Even as he spoke, the father's conscience told him he should have taught his son the lesson of obedience earlier himself.

"I am very glad you have told me this, John," he said. "Have no fear that I will be harsh with the boy. He is wilful and headstrong; I suppose I was the same at his age."

"I beg your pardon, sir, I'm sure; but, you know, I remember when you were just such a little chap as Master Theodore; and sometimes I'm most afraid I forget my manners. But I've the family's welfare at heart, and—"

"You're a faithful soul, John," his master interposed feelingly; "I know that." And having arrived at the Hall, they parted company.

Mr. Barton went straight upstairs to the nursery, where he found his wife and the two boys. It was almost dark, and his footsteps made no sound on the thick carpet, so that for a few minutes he stood in the background, unseen and unheard.

Mrs. Barton sat on a low chair by Jack's sofa. The little invalid's golden head rested on his mother's shoulder; whilst on a stool at her feet sat Theodore, looking up at her with interested eyes.

"And David killed the giant," Mrs. Barton was saying in her dear, sweet voice, "killed him with a sling and a stone."

"A sort of catapult, I suppose?" Theodore queried. "What a first-rate shot David must have been!"

"Yes. You see it is not always the strongest that wins. David was only a lad; but he trusted in God, and God was with him—"

She broke off suddenly as her husband came forward. Theodore turned crimson, and regarded his father with startled eyes.

"I am sorry to disturb you, Mary," Mr. Barton said gently, "but I want a few words with Theodore before he goes to bed. Theodore, come downstairs into the library with me."

CHAPTER IX.

LITTLE JACK AT DEATH'S DOOR.

LATE that night, when all the household had presumably gone to rest, a little figure, clad in a scarlet dressing-gown, stole softly into Jack's bedroom, and, carefully closing the door, crept up to the bed.

"Is that you, Theodore?" Jack asked anxiously. "I thought you would come. Oh! I have been so very unhappy! Dear Theo, what is the matter? What did father say to you?"

For Theodore was weeping bitterly. He climbed on the edge of the bed, and laying his head on the pillow, sobbed as though his heart would break. Much distressed, Jack put his arm lovingly around his stepbrother's neck, and wept in sympathy. But Theodore's tears did not last long; he presently sat up, and explained the whole story of his troubles and misdeeds to his attentive listener.

"You set fire to the hay-rick!" Jack cried in dismay, when he at last understood Theodore's somewhat rambling statement.

"Yes. Of course I did not mean to—I suppose Tom or I must have dropped a lighted match in some loose hay without knowing it. Oh, dear, isn't it dreadful?"

"I don't know—not angry exactly, but sorry, and—and disappointed. He said he thought he could have trusted me," Theodore explained, with a choking sob. "I was very naughty, very disobedient, and I can't think what made me be so wicked. I was never so sorry about anything in my life before. Father said I ought not to have gone into the lower meadow with Tom; I ought just to have spoken to him, and gone home."

"Jesus will help you, Theo. You know that, don't you? I'll tell you a verse out of the Bible that mother told me to remember, when I wanted to do something wrong, shall I?"

"'Thou God seest me.' You know, Theo, you wouldn't have liked father, or mother, or even me to have seen you smoking with Tom Blake this morning, would you, now?"

Theodore sighed deeply, and was silent for a long while. It was quite dark, so that the children could not discern each other's faces, but Jack held Theodore's hand firmly in his thin little fingers.

"You must never think anyone hates you, Theo," Jack said at length. "No one could—you are so kind! I think you will be a hero when you are a man—brave and strong, and I—"

Jack paused abruptly. He could picture a future for his stepbrother, but not for himself.

"Do you feel ill to-night, Jack?" Theodore asked uneasily, struck by an intonation of wistfulness in the other's voice.

"I ought not to have come, bothering you so. Jane would be dreadfully angry if she knew I was not in bed."

"I felt sure you would come! I should not have been able to sleep all night if you had stayed away. Has father forgiven you, Theo?"

"Yes. He was very kind to me, and he made me feel so ashamed of myself. I was sorry when I saw how sorry he was! I thought at first he was only annoyed about my smoking, but when he said most likely I set the rick on fire, I expected he might thrash me, and I was awfully frightened. Somehow he seemed to understand how I felt. I think father's a brick, don't you?"

"I mean always to try and please him for the future," Theodore proceeded earnestly. "He said the hay-rick was worth many pounds, but he didn't mind the loss of the money half so much as my having been with Tom Blake."

"Yes," was the prompt reply. "Well, I suppose I must go now. Good night, old fellow!"

Theodore's talk with Jack had done him good. He went quietly back to his own room, and was soon asleep. But Jack lay awake for a long while, thinking of his stepbrother; and in the morning, when his mother came to see him, as she always did the first thing, she found him feverish, and tossing about restlessly. Jack was ill; and, as evening drew on, he grew rapidly worse.

The village doctor came, shook his head gravely, and spoke of further advice. Then the great London physician was telegraphed for, and the next morning he arrived, and was shut up for a long time in Jack's room.

"I am glad he is here," Theodore said to Jane. "It will be all right now, you'll see. He'll make Jack better, won't he?"

Jane made no answer, so Theodore went downstairs, meaning to wait in the drawing-room till the doctors came down, hoping to hear what they thought about his stepbrother. To his surprise he found his aunts there.

"We are terribly shocked at the sad news," Miss Selina said, kindly drawing the boy towards her, and kissing his troubled race. "We must hope for the best, my dear. Jack is in God's hands."

"Oh, yes, he does! Sometimes he can't help crying out; but I expect the London doctor will give him something to stop the pain; don't you think so?"

"You seem very fond of him," Miss Penelope remarked, her voice sounding unusually soft and gentle.

"It is very kind of you to come," Mr. Barton said, as he shook hands with his aunts.

"Can we do anything in any way?" Miss Selina asked, her tone full of genuine sympathy.

"No, I think not, thank you. The doctors are in the library discussing their case. I fear there is a very slight hope this time. The poor little fellow-seems to have no strength left."

"Father!" cried Theodore, in an awestruck whisper. "Do you mean that you think Jack will die?"

"I cannot say, my son. We shall know better what to think when we hear what the doctors have to say. Run away to the nursery now, Theodore, like a good boy."

Theodore obeyed, and spent the rest of the day most unhappily. He heard the doctors leave, and listened anxiously to the report Jane brought him that they thought Jack very dangerously ill, but it was possible he might rally again if his strength held out. To this hope, slight though it was, Theodore clung. He wandered aimlessly about the house and grounds, questioning everyone he came across:

All hoped he would, for there was not an inmate of Afton Hall who did not dearly love Theodore's stepbrother.

"It'll be as God wills," old John Bawdon replied, when appealed to for his opinion. "Maybe the Lord wants the little lad."

"Aye, aye, Master Theodore, so we do. But it's a bit selfish of us to feel like that, I take it. 'Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither have entered into the heart of man, the things which God hath prepared for them that love Him.' And Master Jack loves the Lord dearly. To think he may see Jesus before me after all! Well, well, 'tis hard to understand. Here am I, old, but hearty yet, and that bit of a boy has had more suffering in the few years he has lived than I have had all my long life! Oh, you mustn't grudge him to Jesus, Master Theodore!"

But Theodore turned impatiently away, and stole once more to the door of the room where his stepbrother lay. Once Mrs. Barton came out, and the boy clutched at her dress, and pleaded earnestly to see Jack. She shook her head sadly, but he persisted in his request.

"No, my dear, no," she whispered. "It cannot be. He is suffering dreadfully; I cannot let you see him now."

Even as she spoke, Theodore heard a terrible wail from the little sufferer, and he shrank away in dismay. He saw how the sound wrung his stepmother's heart.

And Theodore went to his own room, and kneeling down by his bedside, prayed as he had never prayed in his life before; and perhaps it was the first real prayer his heart had ever offered, for self was forgotten, and he spoke to God for Jack alone.

"Oh, God!" he cried, "do help Jack, and make him well. Don't mind what I feel, only take away Jack's pain, for Jesus Christ's sake."

And as he prayed, Theodore felt assured that God was listening to him, that he was not praying in vain. When he arose from his knees he was much happier, and when Jane wanted him to go to bed, he submitted to her wish passively.

It seemed to Theodore that he had been asleep but a short while when he was aroused by his stepmother's voice.

He was out of bed in a moment, and not waiting even to slip on his dressing-gown, followed Mrs. Barton into the passage. At the doorway of Jack's room she paused, hesitated a moment, then asked anxiously:

"Afraid!" He lifted his fearless grey eyes to her face in astonishment, wondering what she meant.

"You need not be; for though he has been so ill, he is not suffering now," she added quickly, as she opened the door and went to the bedside.

Theodore peeped into the room. No, Jack was not suffering now, for he was lying back quietly on the pillows, his dark eyes wide-open, turned in the direction of the door. The doctor and Mr. Barton stood near, and Jane hovered in the background.

"Theodore has come to see you, my darling," Mrs. Barton said, as she bent over her little son and kissed him tenderly.

Oh, the wealth of love in the weak voice! Theodore stole quietly across the floor, and took up his favourite position on the edge of the bed.

The beautiful brown eyes rested contentedly on Theodore's face; the frail hand sought Theodore's strong clasp.

"Better? that's right! You've been dreadfully bad this time, haven't you? Never mind, you'll soon be well."

"I want to get well," Jack whispered faintly. "I wish you would sing to me, Theo—will you? You know my favourite hymn."

So Theodore sang, "At even, ere the sun was set," quite unmindful of the presence of any one but Jack, whose face grew radiant as he listened. When it was ended the little invalid closed his eyes, as though he was sleepy; but opening them again in a few moments, he spoke in a distressed voice:

His mother repeated very slowly and distinctly the first prayer she had taught his baby lips to lisp—that prayer to our Father in Heaven which embraces all our needs; and Jack faintly whispered the words after her, a look of perfect happiness and contentment settling on his face.

And Theodore, who was really very sleepy, replied drowsily, "All right, old fellow," and laid his head on the pillow by his stepbrother's side.

A few minutes later the doctor moved to the bed, and after a moment's scrutiny of its occupants, turned a smiling glance towards the others.

"Your little son will recover from this attack," he told the anxious mother in a whisper, as he shook hands with her. "You had better let the children remain as they are. They are both asleep."

He followed Mr. Barton out of the room, whilst Mrs. Barton approached the bed and saw that the boys were indeed sleeping peacefully. She gazed at them with a world of thankfulness depicted in her expressive face, her eyes misty with tears. Jane fetched a warm shawl and wrapped it around Theodore, who had laid himself down outside the bedclothes.

The night was nearly gone, and the first streaks of dawn were appearing in the eastern sky as the two women sat down to watch, one on either side of the bed. No word was spoken, but each heart was full to overflowing with joy and gladness at the knowledge that little Jack was better! and Mrs. Barton, as her eyes rested on the sleeping children, felt that Theodore, wilful and mistrustful of her as he seemed to be, could never be otherwise than dear to her, for the sake of the love he bore her little son.

CHAPTER X.

GOOD NEWS.

WHEN Theodore awoke on the following morning, Jack was still sleeping peacefully by his side, though the sun was shining high in the sky, and it was past nine o'clock. Jane hurried her little master to his own room, and bade him dress as quickly as he could. Her face was pale and tired with watching; indeed, she felt almost worn out, and was consequently rather silent, which fact alarmed Theodore, who feared his stepbrother's life might be still in danger.

"Do you think Jack is really and truly better?" he questioned eagerly, his face full of anxiety.

"Yes, yes," Jane assured him. "Don't you worry, Master Theodore; God is going to let the dear lamb stay with us a bit longer. He had a sharp time yesterday, and you mustn't be surprised or alarmed because he didn't wake up just now. Sleep will do him more good than anything, and you shall know the minute he awakes how he is. Make haste, like a good boy! You and master will have breakfast alone this morning, for the mistress is going to her own room for a rest."

When Theodore joined his father in the breakfast-room, he had regained his usual good spirits. He could not realise that it was so short a while since the episode of the burnt hay-rick; for Jack's dangerous attack of illness, and the anxiety he had endured on his stepbrother's account, had made him forget all else. The sight of his father's face, however, reminded him forcibly of the last occasion on which they had held a conversation alone together; and the little boy met Mr. Barton's gaze a trifle uneasily.

"So you and I are to breakfast by ourselves this morning," Mr. Barton remarked pleasantly, as Theodore took his place opposite to him at the table. "Jack is still asleep, I hear."

"Yes," Theodore responded, in a subdued tone; "Jane says sleep will do him more good than anything. But he is really better, isn't he, father?"

Mr. Barton spoke brightly and cheerfully, and continued to converse with his little son without once referring to Tom Blake or the burnt hay-rick. Theodore understood that no more was to be said on that subject, and his spirits, ever elastic, rose accordingly. He made an excellent breakfast, and talked and laughed without restraint.

"You appear very fond of Jack," Mr. Barton said at length, after a pause in the conversation.

"Yes," Theodore acknowledged, "I am. I thought I shouldn't be. I quite meant to hate him, but I don't! Aunt Pen said he would put my nose out of joint. He hasn't; but I shouldn't care if he had!"

"It was very wrong of every one, then. I am glad people did not succeed in putting you against Jack; for it is a great pleasure to me to see you boys good friends. I only wish something could be done to cure the poor little lad. It is a terrible grief to his mother that he is such an invalid."

"Can't the great London doctor make him well?" Theodore asked. "He's very clever, isn't he?"

"Yes, I believe he is. I have asked him to come down again next week to see Jack. He said something about different treatment; but the poor child was too ill yesterday to think of that. However, I shall hear what he has to say after he has seen Jack again. I should give a great deal if he could effect a cure."

"Oh, father!" Theodore cried excitedly, "do you think he might be able to make Jack really well—well enough to walk about, I mean?"

"I don't know, my boy. I hardly dare indulge in such a bright hope as that, for Jack's case has been discussed by many doctors, who have thought it hopeless; but this one certainly did say something which led me to understand he would like to take Jack in hand himself. Don't say anything about it at present; more especially, don't mention it to Jack or his mother."

"Oh, I promise I won't! Oh, father," and as Theodore spoke his face glowed with happiness at the very thought of Jack being made better, "if Jack got well I don't know what I should feel! Think what good times we should have together! I would teach him to ride. I would lend him Jigger; and you know he's a very quiet, good-tempered pony."

"Don't let your imagination run away with you, Theodore. It may be Jack will always be a helpless invalid; if so, that is all the more reason why you should be kind to him, poor little boy!"

"I shall ask God to make him well," Theodore declared earnestly. "I prayed to God yesterday to take away Jack's pain, and He did."

During the days which followed, Theodore was tempted many times to repeat what his father had told him about the London doctor; but, mindful of his promise, he refrained, though every one could see that he was in a great state of excitement about something.

Although Jack was much pulled down after his severe attack of illness, he was slowly yet surely regaining his usual amount of strength, and his mother's pale face grew less anxious as she saw that this was so. She was considerably surprised when her husband informed her he had again sent for the famous London doctor to see her little son, and enquired tremulously if he considered him worse. But being reassured on that point, she was quite satisfied, and put no further questions.

When she went upstairs to Jack's room to inform him that a visitor was coming to see him, she found the two boys together. Jack had not yet been allowed to leave his bed to be dressed; but he lay posted up comfortably with pillows, holding an animated conversation with Theodore, who sat astride the footboard of the bed. He sprang off as his stepmother entered the room, and stood looking a little embarrassed, as he often did in her presence.

She advanced to the bed, and sat down on a chair, glancing smilingly from one boy to the other.

"Oh, no, mother!" Jack answered promptly, looking at her brightly and lovingly. "Theodore was telling me about an adventure he had yesterday. May I tell mother, Theo?"

"He was chased by a big calf," Jack said, with a laugh. "He thought it was a bull, and he was so frightened that he ran into the stream at the bottom of the lower meadow!"

"It was a yearling," Theodore explained hurriedly. "I heard it bellow, and I didn't stop to look around, but ran as fast as ever I could, without looking where I was going. Father saw me, and called to me to stop."

"He was in the stream then," Jack continued, "and when he turned around he saw he had been running away from a yearling with little horns about half an inch long. It was only playful, not in the least savage."

"But I could not tell that; father said so afterwards. You should have heard it bellow. Such a tremendous voice it had—enough to scare any one. I should not have said anything about it if father had not seen me," Theodore said, growing red, and looking decidedly vexed as he remembered how his father had laughed at him for being afraid of a big calf.

"Well, I am sure you acted as I should have done under the circumstances," Mrs. Barton told him candidly. "I am certain I should have run away, though perhaps I might have looked to see where I was going. Did you get very wet?"

"Yes. The water was nearly up to my knees. Jane was cross when she found out how wet my shoes and stockings were. If you have come to sit with Jack, I think I'll be off."

"Oh, don't go because I've come!" she exclaimed quickly; "I am not going to remain long. I only want to tell you, Jack," she said, turning to her little son, "that the doctor from London, who saw you when you were so ill the other day, is coming down to see you again."

Jack looked surprised at hearing this; whilst Theodore grew red, and darted a shrewd glance at his stepmother to see how much she knew.

"I think I'm sorry," the little invalid said, with a sigh. "I want to be left alone. I don't want to be pulled about any more. Doctors hurt my back so much, though of course I know they don't mean to. I do wish you'd ask father not to let the London doctor come again."

"Oh, Jack!" Theodore cried impetuously. "Don't say that! You must see him—indeed you must! Perhaps he'll be able to make you better!"

Jack shook his head sadly, for he did not think that the least likely, nor did his mother, for that matter; but she explained that an arrangement had been made for the London doctor to visit him on the following day, and the plan could not be altered now.

"Very well," Jack said, with an air of resignation, "but I hope he won't stay long. It's very kind of father to send for him, but no one can make me better."

"God can," Theodore interposed eagerly; "you know, Jack, I've heard you say that often!"

"Perhaps He'll teach the London doctor how to cure you," Theodore proceeded hurriedly, "at any rate I mean to ask Him!"

Jack smiled, and cast a grateful, loving glance at his stepbrother, whilst Mrs. Barton looked from one to the other with a puzzled expression in her eyes. She did not understand Theodore's manner; and for a moment the suspicion crossed her mind that he knew more about the doctor's expected visit than he meant to say. But, on reflection, she thought that a very unlikely idea, and told herself that it was only his love and anxiety for Jack that made him so eager and excited.

The next day found Theodore far too restless to await patiently the result of the doctor's visit. He wandered aimlessly about the house and grounds, unable to settle to anything.

"I don't know what's come to him," Jane said to Mrs. Barton; "he's most unlike himself. It seems to me he has something on his mind. I hope he has not been in mischief again."

She forgot all about Theodore when the London doctor arrived and in company with the village practitioner made a careful examination of the little invalid. Afterwards, when the doctors had gone downstairs, and were shut in the library together, she left Jack in Jane's care, and joined her husband in the drawing-room.

As soon as Theodore, who was in his own bedroom, heard his stepmother follow the others downstairs, he went in to see Jack, and found him lying back in bed, looking pale and weary. Theodore commenced to ply him with questions.

"No, not much," Jack responded. "He was very gentle, and he asked me how I should like to be a patient of his. I told him I didn't think it was worth while his bothering about me, because I knew he couldn't cure me."

"But how do you know he can't? Oh, Jack, supposing he could, what would you say then?"

"I wouldn't worry Master Jack with too much talking," Jane interposed at this point; "can't you see he's looking very tired, Master Theodore?"

"You don't know anything about it!" Theodore exclaimed rudely, turning an indignant glance upon Jane; "you needn't interfere!"

Jack's voice was full of gentle reproach. The anger died from Theodore's face, and he muttered something under his breath about being sorry, which Jane thought it wisest to take as an apology. At that moment the door opened, and Mrs. Barton entered with flushed cheeks and glistening eyes.

"Oh, Jack, my darling!" she said tenderly, as she bent over her little son, "I have such news for you—such wonderful news!"

And then she told him that the great London doctor thought that in time he might be cured, and even be able to walk and run about like other little boys.

For several minutes Jack seemed incapable of grasping the meaning of her words; but when at last he did understand his mother's news, he uttered a little gasping cry of joy, and burst into a flood of tears.

"Oh, Jack!" Theodore exclaimed, "aren't you glad? I thought you wanted to get well, and I prayed to God to teach the London doctor how to make you better. Oh, don't cry, old fellow! there's nothing to cry about."

"It's because I'm so glad. I—I can't help it," Jack sobbed. "Oh, Theo, to think that perhaps I may be going to get well after all!"

"Hurrah!" cried Theodore, restraining his high spirits no longer, but capering around the room in a state of wild excitement. "Won't we have fine times together! Won't we have fun! Won't—"

But his words came to an abrupt conclusion, for Jane, fearful lest his behaviour might have an ill effect on the little invalid, caught him by the shoulder, and whisked him out of the room before he had time to realise her intention. He went downstairs, and spread the good news amongst the servants, and then hurried into the garden in search of John Bawdon, certain that in him he would find a ready sympathiser in his joy.

CHAPTER XI.

THE ARRIVAL AT BLACKBURN FARM.

A YEAR had passed since Mr. Barton had brought home his bride and her little son to Afton Hall. Once more it was early spring; once more the crocuses and daffodils were in bloom, and old John Bawdon was turning over the brown earth with his spade, and musing, meanwhile, on the changes which the past twelve months had brought about. He thought of the day on which Jane had informed her little master in his presence of the existence of his stepbrother, and remembered how anxious and uneasy he had himself felt at the sight of Theodore's rebellious face, with its flashing grey eyes and determined mouth.

At the further end of the garden two figures were to be seen at that moment—boys' forms—one taller, and sturdier than the other. The old man smiled contentedly at the sight, for the two were Theodore and Jack. The latter was, happily, no longer an invalid, for the London doctor had been right in his opinion; and under his treatment Jack had slowly gained strength, until there had come a never-to-be-forgotten day, when he could walk a few steps with the help of crutches. The crutches had been discarded altogether, several months ago now, and though Jack still looked delicate, especially beside his stepbrother, who was a perfect picture of robust health, he was able to move about unaided, and improved in vigour day by day. He now joined Theodore in his lessons, walking to the Nest with him to receive instruction from Miss Penelope. Mr. Barton talked of engaging a tutor for the boys later on, but there was time enough to think of that; for the present, the existing arrangement seemed satisfactory.

"To think how I worried at the thought of a new mistress," ruminated old John Bawdon, "and the blessing she's been to us all! Well, 'tis wrong to doubt the ways of the Almighty! He knows best!" He leaned on his spade, and looked at the boys. "They make a pretty pair," he thought, "but anyone can tell which is the leader. Master Theodore has a masterful way with him, to be sure, and 'tis easy to see Master Jack takes a pattern by him—not but what Master Jack has a mind of his own, too, although he always seems so gentle and tender-hearted!"

Presently the boys approached the old man, and began to talk with him. He was generally full of anecdotes and stories about things which had happened in his youth, and knew so many interesting facts about birds, and animals, and flowers, that he was a most entertaining companion.

"Yes, sir," was the prompt reply, whilst a smile lit up the old man's withered countenance; "I was born at Naraton, and that's right in the midst o' the hills."

"Very likely not, sir! Your grandfather owned a farm on Dartmoor, the same that belongs to your father now, near the little village of Naraton, and my father was a labourer, who worked on the estate. I mind when your grandfather was a small boy, he used to come and stay at the farm 'long with his mother, for the sake of the bracing air, and many a ramble he and I have had across the moors together. He took quite a fancy to me, and that's how it was I came to be so fortunate as to get employment here—a lad was wanted to make himself generally useful about the place, and I got the job. I've been here ever since, and hope to remain as long as I live. Was I ever on Dartmoor, indeed!" the old man exclaimed, chuckling at the thought; "aye, was I!"

"Do tell us what it is like," Jack said, coaxingly; "because we want to know for a very particular reason, don't we, Theo?"

"It's grand on Dartmoor! The air's so fine and fresh it puts strength into one's veins and braces one up! I've been on the moors in all weathers—when the sky has looked like one great sea of blue, and there hasn't been a scrap of shade anywhere, and the heather's been in bloom—the most beautiful sight—miles upon miles of purple with never a break! Then I've seen the moors all covered with fog, so thick that you couldn't see your hand if you held it close to your eyes!"

"Father says people often get lost in those fogs," Theodore remarked, "and sometimes they get into bogs, don't they?"

"Yes. It is a serious business to be lost in a fog on Dartmoor, and it can happen easier than you think. I mind when I was a bit of a lad not much older than you, Master Theodore, I missed my way in a fog one dull November afternoon, and should have had to spend the whole night on the moor if it hadn't cleared. I was crouching for shelter under a great granite rock, half-dead with cold I really believe, when I saw a glow of light appear. The fog cleared almost suddenly, and the full moon slowly sailed upwards into the sky, making everything show out as plainly as though it was day. It was a grand sight, I can tell you! I ran home as fast as ever I could, and glad enough my parents were to see me, for they had missed me, and when they saw the fog come down, had made up their minds I was lost on the moors, and would like enough perish with cold."

"But couldn't your father have gone to look for you?" questioned Jack. "That's what I should have thought he would have done."

"A man may be born on the moors," he said, "and yet not be able to find his way in a fog. My father could walk almost everywhere in the dark, but a fog is very misleading. There was a convict I heard of once who escaped from Princetown Prison, which is right in the heart of Dartmoor. He stole away in a dense fog, thinking to escape easier. He ran for miles and miles, not knowing where he was going, but imagining he was getting further and further away from the prison; and, by-and-by, worn out and footsore, he lay down on the ground to rest. He soon fell asleep, and when he awoke the fog had cleared away, and he—now, where do you suppose he was?"

The boys shook their heads. Their eyes were fixed intently upon the old man's face, whilst he was well pleased to see them so deeply interested.

"He was right outside the prison," John Bawdon declared solemnly; "he had run in a circle, and come back to the very spot from which he had started. He saw it was no good trying to escape then, so he just allowed himself to be taken again. You see how misleading a fog can be, and if you ever find yourself on Dartmoor, you mind what I've told you!"

"Do you know, John," said Theodore, "that most likely we shall be going there soon. Father said at breakfast this morning that he thought a month at his farm at Naraton would be a nice change for us all, and he would write to Mrs. Fry, the farmer's wife, to know if she can take us in."

"Oh, I hope she will!" Jack cried, his face all aglow with glad expectancy. "Father says he would like us to go as soon as the spring really comes. He is going too, and mother, and Jane."

"What will Miss Penelope say?" asked the old man smiling. "Is she willing to give you both a holiday?"

"Oh, yes!" the boys replied; and Theodore added: "I suppose if we go it will be about Easter."

Mrs. Fry wrote in due course to the effect that she would be glad to receive her landlord and his family. She was accustomed to take lodgers during the summer months, and considered herself fortunate to have an opportunity of letting her rooms so early in the year.

Naraton was a pretty little village, situated in a valley amid the Dartmoor tors. The surrounding country was very rough, great rocks of granite being scattered over all the fields, making the land exceedingly difficult to cultivate. Naraton Church, a grand old edifice, which had withstood the storms of several hundreds of years, was built entirely of granite, and most of the tombstones in the churchyard were of the same durable, grey stone. The village, about a score of cottages in all, was built almost in a circle around a green open space, known as "Naraton Green," which was given up to a lot of poultry belonging to the inhabitants of the surrounding dwellings. There was a blacksmith's shop close to the entrance to the churchyard, and on the opposite side of the Green was the post office, which was also a sort of general store, where drapery, groceries, and all kinds of commodities for household use might be obtained.

A beautiful April day was drawing to a close as an open carriage drawn by a pair of horses appeared at the bend of the road by the blacksmith's shop, and swept around Naraton Green on its way to Blackburn Farm. Inside the carriage were Mrs. Barton, Jane, and the two boys; whilst Mr. Barton occupied the box-seat with the driver.

"Sit still, do sit still, Master Theodore," Jane remonstrated as Theodore stood up, the better to gaze about him. "If the carriage should jerk upon a stone you might be thrown out, and that would be a bad beginning to a holiday."

"Oh, Jane, what a fidget you are!" Theodore cried impatiently, resenting the manner in which she clutched him by the sleeve. "Let go my arm! Do you think I'm a baby, to want looking after like that?"

"I wish you'd be as quiet as Master Jack," she continued reproachfully; "he doesn't worry as you do!"

"Oh, no!" Theodore retorted scornfully, "of course not. You're always saying, 'I wish you'd be more like Master Jack,'" he proceeded, mimicking her tone. "I'm not like him, so what's the good of wishing me to be?"

"Do as Jane tells you at once, Theodore," Mrs. Barton said quietly, in the tone which her little stepson knew he must obey whether he liked doing so or not. "Sit down, like a good boy."

At that moment the carriage swerved around a corner rather sharply, and Theodore was nearly thrown off his feet. He sat down then, looking exceedingly foolish; and in a few minutes more they arrived at their destination, where they were greeted by the farmer and his wife—the former a big, silent man; the latter a small, cherry-cheeked woman, with a pair of bright blue eyes, and a brisk, business-like manner. She escorted her lodgers to her best parlour—which was a comfortable apartment with a low ceiling, oak-panelled walls, and a broad, cushioned window-sill—and smiled complacently when she noted the satisfaction on their faces.

"I am glad tea is ready," Theodore remarked, his eyes roving over the table, where a substantial meal was laid. "Aren't you hungry, Jack?"

Mrs. Barton and Jane had gone upstairs, whilst Mr. Barton was still outside in conversation with the farmer, Mrs. Fry and her husband had not lived long at Blackburn Farm, and consequently knew but little of their landlord; therefore, it was quite natural Mrs. Fry should think that Theodore and Jack were real brothers.

"Your brother does not look so strong as you do," she remarked to Theodore as she made some trifling alteration to the tea-table.

"No," Theodore returned promptly; "Jack used to be very ill, but he's much better now. Father says he expects the moorland air will make him quite strong."

"It was my back," Jack explained. "I hurt it, and for years I couldn't walk at all."

"You are like your mother," she told Jack, whose face flushed with pleasure at her words. "You have her eyes, and her smile; but you,—" and she turned to Theodore, "you don't favour her in the least."

"She is not my mother," Theodore replied, growing very red. "My mother is dead. She was very good, and very beautiful, and she died when I was born. Jack and I are not brothers really."

"But I can see you are great friends," Mrs. Fry said, nodding her head in a knowing fashion and smiling. "You are very fond of each other, are you not?"

"Ah, I thought as much! I can see Mrs. Barton is a kind lady," she proceeded, addressing Theodore. "I expect you love her as though she was your own mother, don't you?"

The answer was fiercely spoken, accompanied by an indignant flash of the bright, grey eyes. Mrs. Fry wished she had not been quite so inquisitive, more especially as Mrs. Barton had evidently overheard her question and Theodore's angry response, for she now entered the room and quietly took her place at the tea-table.

Long after the boys had gone to bed that night Mrs. Barton thought of Theodore's fierce "No!" and recalled the passionate tone of his voice. She wondered how it was she was so incapable of winning his love. No one put him against her now, of that she was certain; and yet she could not uproot from his mind that feeling of distrust which he had formed for her before they met. Sometimes she thought he was learning to care for her; and then she would see the old dislike creeping over his tell-tale face, and her heart would ache at the thought that she might never win his affection.

This moorland holiday had been planned for Jack's sake; in fact, Mr. Barton had suggested leaving Theodore at home, to the tender mercies of his great-aunts, but his wife had negatived the idea at once. Theodore's health might not necessitate a change of air, but she had rightly guessed what his feelings would have been if he had had to remain at Afton Hall. Perhaps he would have been grateful to his stepmother if he had known it was entirely owing to her that he slept beneath the roof of Blackburn Farm that night; but he was in ignorance of that fact, and fell asleep with the determination not to allow her to interfere with his pleasure, as she was often obliged to do, for his own good.

CHAPTER XII.

A MORNING'S EXPERIENCE.

THEODORE and Jack occupied the same bedroom at Blackburn Farm. It was a cheerful apartment, into which the sun streamed during the early morning hours, through small lattice windows, as though with an invitation to get up and see how fair the world was at dawn of day; or so, at any rate, Theodore fancied as he opened his eyes the first morning of his sojourn on Dartmoor.

He sat up in bed, scarcely realising for a moment where he was as he gazed around the strange room with its heavy old-fashioned furniture. Near by in another little bed lay Jack, still sleeping tranquilly.

"Jack! Jack!" cried Theodore, "wake up this minute, do! The sun's shining, and the birds are singing! It's a glorious morning! You know we agreed last night we'd be up early to-day!"

But Jack slept on, not hearing his stepbrother's voice, or if he did, it failed to arouse him, for he merely heaved a gentle sigh as though a little disturbed in his sleep.

Theodore sprang out of bed, rushed to the window, and looked out. He had a complete view of the farmyard, in which a group of sleek cows were placidly waiting to be milked; and whilst he still peeped, a trim dairymaid appeared upon the scene, bearing a milk-pail and stool. The sight roused Theodore to prompt action. He flew to Jack's side, and shook the sleeping boy vigorously by the shoulder. Jack opened his brown eyes in mingled fright and astonishment, but recognising Theodore, asked what he wanted.

"Get up, old fellow!" Theodore said, laughing at the bewilderment on the other's face. "The cows are going to be milked, and if you dress quickly you'll be in time to have a glass of new milk."

"I don't care about any," Jack replied, blinking sleepily. "Do go back to bed again; I am sure it is not time to get up yet!"

"It is!" Theodore declared. He was wide awake himself, and saw no reason why his stepbrother should be allowed to sleep any longer.

"If it was time to get up Jane would call us," Jack said, yawning. "I'm going to sleep again, and you'd better do the same—" and he turned on his side and closed his eyes.

Theodore gazed at him doubtfully for a moment. Last night Jack had seemed so eager to rise early, and now he declined to do so. It was too bad! How could he want to sleep with the sun streaming in the windows!

"Get up! If you don't I'll pull the bedding off!" Theodore threatened. "I mean it! What a miserable little owl you are, Jack!"

It was no good to protest, for Theodore was as good as his word. The next minute the bedclothes lay in a heap on the floor, and Jack had perforce to jump out of bed. He began to dress, grumbling a little after such treatment, as was only natural; but he was a good-tempered boy, and not in the least resentful, besides he remembered he had agreed to rise early.

"It is a beautiful day," he said presently. "I do hope we are going to have fine weather whilst we're here! I think I'm glad you made me get up, Theo!"

Theodore had forgotten all about his prayers in his eagerness to be out of doors. He had the grace to blush with shame as his stepbrother knelt down by the window-sill, and reverently buried his face in his hands. He knelt down too, and repeated the form of prayer he was in the habit of saying in the morning, and then glanced at his stepbrother again. It was several minutes before Jack rose from his knees.

"What long prayers you say," Theodore remarked; "mine don't take half the time!"

"You see there's so much I want to tell God," Jack responded smiling, "and so many things to thank Him for."

"Oh, for taking such good care of me, and making people so kind. Then every day I thank God for making me well; and I thank Him for you, Theo."

"Your mother wanted you to be called Theodore, because it means 'Gift of God,'" Jack said earnestly, his dark eyes resting lovingly on his stepbrother's face, "and I think that's what you are to me. God gave you to me when I was very ill, and I never forget to thank Him for that!"

Theodore reflected a moment, asking himself how he would like to go back to the old days, before his stepmother and her little son had come to Afton Hall. He remembered how moody and irritable his father used to be; how the servants had continually quarrelled amongst themselves; and how lonely he himself had often been. All that was altered now. Then, had he nothing to thank God for, too? Jack's simple faith and grateful love put him to shame.

The two boys went quietly downstairs and out into the yard, where they stood and watched the cows milked, and drank a glassful each of the warm, frothy beverage which the milkmaid offered them. Mrs. Fry was up, bustling hither and thither. She allowed the boys to feed the poultry, and told them how often members of her feathered family fall victims to a sly old fox which had lived in the district for years.

"They hunt him every winter," she explained; "but there! he knows the moors better than any huntsman does, and it's my belief they'll never catch him. Last autumn he had several of my young turkeys; dear, dear, I was vexed: turkeys are so difficult to rear, too!"

In a corner of the yard was a pond where the geese and ducks disported themselves, and the boys spent some time in watching a brood of ducklings which had taken to the water that morning for the first time. Then they caught sight of the farmer, and tore after him to enquire where he was going. He explained that he was about to visit some sheep and lambs in a field near by, and good-naturedly invited the boys to accompany him. He spoke the broadest moorland dialect, so that his little companions found some difficulty in understanding what he said at first; and in consequence had often to ask him to repeat his remarks, whereupon he would raise his voice, as though he thought they must be deaf, greatly to their amusement.

"I think I like the black and white lambs best," Jack said to Theodore, as they stood in the gateway of a field where a score or more of lambs frisked about by their mothers' sides, whilst the farmer strolled around examining his flock. "Oh, Theo, look! there's one all black. Isn't he a beauty! What a curly back he has!"

Theodore crept cautiously towards the black lamb, which immediately ran away bleating in search of its mother. Jack laughed; but the farmer called to Theodore not to worry the sheep, so he desisted, and returned to his stepbrother.

Mr. Fry disappeared from sight behind a large block of granite in one corner of the field; and when he reappeared he was carrying something in his arms, whilst Help, the sheep-dog, followed close at his heels.

"I wonder what he has found?" Theodore exclaimed. "Why, I do believe it's a little lamb!"

A lamb it was, only a few hours old. The farmer explained that its mother had two others besides, and three was one too many for her to care for. He meant to take this little creature home for his wife to bring up by hand.

"Oh, please do let me carry it!" Jack cried, as he smoothed its woolly coat with a gentle touch.

"No, Jack," said Theodore quickly; "I had better carry it, for I am much stronger than you."

The farmer glanced from one eager face to the other, and shook his head. He wished to please both boys; and after a moment's consideration suggested that they should take it in turns to carry the lamb. They willingly agreed to this proposition; and it was decided that Jack should have the lamb for the first half of the homeward way. The little animal was certainly not a great weight, but it was heavier than Jack had expected; so that he was not sorry when Theodore took his burden from his arms, and marched on ahead, with "Help" at his side.

Theodore's arms were strong, and they did not tire as his stepbrother's had done. The farmer advised him to walk quietly; but he was in a hurry to arrive at the farm, to exhibit the lamb to Mr. and Mrs. Barton and Jane, and deliberately turned a deaf ear to what Mr. Fry was saying.

They were nearing the farm now, and in another minute came in sight of the gate which divided the yard from the road. Mr. and Mrs. Barton were leaning over the gate, evidently on the look-out for the boys. When Theodore saw them, he quickened his footsteps to a run, and shouted to them to look and see what he had got. Hardly had he spoken when his toe caught in a loose stone in the rugged road; and before he knew what was happening, he slipped, and rolled down the side of the road into a deep ditch which was nearly half-full of muddy water.

Jack uttered a cry of dismay, whilst the farmer ran forward to Theodore's assistance, and Mr. and Mrs. Barton came hurrying down the road.

The farmer advised him to walk quietly.

"Oh, poor Theo!" gasped Jack, wringing his hands with affright. "Oh, the poor, dear little lamb!"

By this time Mr. Fry had dragged Theodore out of the ditch, and had rescued the lamb, which the boy had dropped. Happily it was not injured in the least, though it bleated pityfully, and of course was cold and wet after its immersion in the muddy water.

Theodore sat on the edge of the ditch, mud-stained and miserable, whilst Jack and his stepmother bent over him anxiously, and enquired if he was hurt. He shook his head, feeling more than half-inclined to cry; but he bit his lip, and blinked the tears out of his eyes manfully.

"You had better get up and return to the farm as quickly as you can," Mr. Barton remarked dryly. "Change your clothes at once. Really, Theodore, you are extremely careless!"

"Who would think there was a dirty old ditch like that by the side of the road!" Theodore exclaimed vexedly. "It ought to be filled in!"

"I am most, thankful you are not hurt," his stepmother told him. "You might have been injured, and the poor lamb too."

Mr. Fry was disappearing from sight with the lamb in his arms, anxious to get the little thing dried and fed. Theodore looked after him ruefully.

"I don't know what he'll think of me," he said in a regretful tone. "He told me to be careful, too!"

"Come, Theodore, get up at once!" his father interposed sharply. "Are you going to sit there in your wet clothes all day?"

Theodore arose with a shiver, and slowly turned towards the farm. He looked a pitiable object indeed, and he hung his head dejectedly. Jack walked by his side, offering words of consolation, and wondering what Jane would say when she saw her young master's deplorable condition.

But for once Jane refrained from scolding. She saw Theodore was smarting under a sense of the indignity of his fall, and merely recommended a good wash and a change of clothing.

When Theodore appeared at the breakfast-table he was in a subdued frame of mind. His father asked him how he had enjoyed his mud-bath, and seemed inclined to make a joke of his late experience. The little boy was grateful that his stepmother did not join in the laugh against him, but, on the contrary, tried to turn the conversation into another channel. After the meal was over she drew him aside, and told him that she had been to the kitchen herself, and ascertained that the lamb was no worse for the accident. Mrs. Fry had dried it by the fire, and fed it with warm milk.

"No, not angry at all. But you must learn to be more careful, my dear; you are too impetuous. You must listen to what others say, especially when they are older and wiser than yourself. Mr. Fry told me he had desired you to walk quietly."

Theodore was silenced. He realised that his stepmother was right, and that he did not attend to what he was told as he ought.

His morning's experience somewhat damped his spirits for the remainder of the day, for he was conscious that every one about the farm knew what had occurred. He sought Mr. Fry, and told him how sorry he was he had been so careless. The farmer was very kind, and begged him to think no more of it, assuring him that the lamb was unhurt, and promising to have the ditch filled up to prevent further accidents.

"I wish I was more like you, old fellow," Theodore said confidentially to Jack after they were in bed that night.

"Yes. You always listen to what people tell you, and do as you're told. I don't."

"Oh, yes; of course I could!" was the more cheerful response. "That's a good idea of yours, Jack. I'll ask Him to-night."

CHAPTER XIII.

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.

MR. BARTON spent the greater part of his time in fishing in the river Dart. He was a keen sportsman, and often passed long, solitary days engaged in his favourite recreation; sometimes, however, he took the boys with him. They thoroughly enjoyed the novelty at first, but after a while they found it slow work watching Mr. Barton flogging the stream, and found amusements which suited them better.

One of the first acquaintances they made at Naraton was Seth Stanley, the village blacksmith. He was a dark, stern-visaged man of middle age, with a very tender heart beneath a rough exterior. The first occasion on which he and the boys met, was when the latter accompanied Mr. Fry to the blacksmith's shop in order to see Boxer, the farmer's favourite horse, shod.

Boxer was a sort of general factotum, if such a term may be applied to a horse. It was his duty to perform odd jobs upon the farm, and make himself generally useful. Mr. Fry drove him to a neighbouring market town every week in a roomy, old-fashioned gig, and often he carried the farmer many miles to fetch a flock of sheep, or a herd of cattle. He was really an invaluable animal, for when required he did not disdain to do a little ploughing, or draw a cart. The boys were greatly surprised when they learnt that Boxer was sixteen years old, for he had plenty of spirit yet; and having always been well fed and carefully tended, did not look his age. Mr. Fry had owned him since he had been a colt, and looked upon him in the light of an old friend.

After Boxer had been carefully fitted with new shoes, the farmer led him off, whilst the boys still lingered outside the blacksmith's shop. Seth Stanley invited them to sit down on a long stool which was placed inside the doorway. He kept the stool there on purpose for his visitors, for he dearly loved to get some of the villagers in to talk with him. A very kindly gossip was Seth Stanley, and a most fascinating place was his shop, with its immense fire and steaming forge.

Theodore and Jack accepted the invitation to "step inside and sit down for a few minutes," with alacrity, watching the blacksmith in his leathern apron with admiring eyes whilst he took a bar of iron from the fire, and sent the sparks flying upwards as he placed it on the anvil and beat it with his hammer.

"Oh, Theo," whispered Jack, "isn't he strong? Wouldn't you like to be a blacksmith? I should!"

Theodore nodded. Presently Seth Stanley turned his attention to his young visitors. "Well," he said, as he stood before them in his shirt sleeves with his arms crossed, "what do you think of my trade? Eh?"

He spoke with but a touch of the moorland dialect, in a voice which was singularly mellow and deep.

"I think it's a very nice trade," Theodore replied, politely; "my stepbrother was just asking me if I wouldn't like to be a blacksmith."

Seth Stanley glanced at Jack's pale face and slight form, a smile crossing his own countenance the while.

"I am stronger than I look," Jack said quickly. "I am not delicate like I used to be. Am I, Theo?"

"He used to have a bad back," Theodore explained, "but it's quite well now. He gets tired quicker than I do, but the doctors say he will grow stronger by-and-bye."

"Ah! the fine moorland air will put fresh life into him," the blacksmith declared. "So you are stepbrothers, I hear?"

"I am. Have you any children, Mr. Stanley?" Theodore asked, with polite interest, thinking he was justified in putting a question in his turn.

"No, sir; I never married. You may call me Seth, if you please—most folks do. No, I've neither chick nor child belonging to me. I've a brother, but he and his family stick to their caravan."

"I come from gipsy stock. Stanley's a gipsy name," the blacksmith informed them. "I was born in a tent under the shelter of one of the Tors, and I've always had a kind of affection for Dartmoor on that account. Here's my native air, young gentlemen, and it's never too keen for me even in the sharpest weather. Ah, you look surprised to think I'm a gipsy! Perhaps you've been taught to despise the wandering race?"

"No, indeed," Jack added earnestly, "mother wouldn't teach us to despise anyone; that is, she always says so long as people are good, nothing else matters much."

"Your mother's quite right," was the hearty response. "But there's a lot of prejudice against gipsies, and perhaps it's not to be wondered at. When I was your age I expect it would have been difficult to find a more hardened young wretch for lying and stealing than I was! Often and often I've wondered I never came to be a gaolbird; but God spoke to me in time!"

"How did God speak to you?" Theodore asked, with great curiosity; then, fearing his question might be deemed impertinent, he added, deprecatingly, "please don't tell us if you would rather not."

"I don't mind your knowing," the blacksmith returned readily, "in fact it's a tale I'm rather partial to telling to show the loving kindness of Almighty God. It was this way. My mother died when I was a little chap, younger than either of you, and after she was gone, my father travelled the country with me and my brother, doing a trade in horse dealing. Father wasn't a bad sort at heart, but during one winter, which we spent near a big town in the north of England, he became mixed up with a shady lot of people, and they got the best of him, and made him the scapegoat for them all. It was a case of burglary, and my father was taken by the police. He might have got off easy if he'd have told who his accomplices were. But no, he wasn't one of that sort! So he got five years' penal servitude, and was sent to Princetown Prison. Have you ever seen the prison, young gentlemen?"

"Ah! you can't think what it feels to a gipsy to be a prisoner. It killed my father; he couldn't stand it. My brother and I found our way to Princetown, and got hold of the prison chaplain, who promised he'd try to get us an interview with father because he was ill, and not likely to recover. Well, we saw him, and he was dying—poor old father!" The blacksmith passed the back of his hand across his eyes, and continued, "He could just speak. 'Seth,' he said to me, 'I'm dying, but I'm not afraid. Him as was born in a stable, and was the Friend of sinners and outcasts like us—He's going along with me. Promise you'll find Him too.' Well, I promised, and poor father died. Afterwards my brother and I went away, and earned our livings as best we could. My promise to father didn't trouble me much; I'd only given it to satisfy him, you see. But, some years afterwards, I fell sick, and was taken to a hospital, and there they told me of that same Lord Jesus, the Friend of sinners and outcasts, poor father had wanted me to find; and I learnt I hadn't far to go to seek Him because He was everywhere."

"Well?" questioned Jack eagerly, his eyes shining with a brilliant light, his usually pale cheeks flushed.

"Well, sir, I found Him, and I've tried to live an honest life ever since. I'd learnt to be a blacksmith, and as there wasn't one in Naraton, I came and started business here, and I've done well."

"How mother would like to hear your story!" Jack exclaimed. "Would you mind if I told her?"

"Not at all, sir. It always seems very wonderful to me, because good came out of evil. If father hadn't been sent to prison he might never have found the Lord Jesus. I've told the tale to many, and mayhaps it's been a lesson to some."

"Yes, sir. He's a married man with a troop of youngsters. Sometimes in the summer they find their way here, and glad enough I am to see them. Farmer Fry allows them to encamp in one of his fields, and they can have as much milk as they like from the farm, and Mrs. Fry knows her poultry's safe though there are gipsies upon the estate."

"It must be fun living in a caravan," Theodore said with enthusiasm. "I think I should like to be a gipsy."

"Or I should like to be a great traveller, or an explorer," Theodore proceeded, "and have wonderful adventures."

"I suppose you've explored the places around here?" the blacksmith said enquiringly.

"We've been for several long walks with mother and Jane," Jack answered, "and father takes us fishing with him sometimes."

Seth Stanley went to the doorway of his shop, the boys following, and pointed to the range of hills which stretched before their eyes in the distance, bathed in the bright spring sunshine.

"Do you see that Tor, the highest of the lot, the one with a mass of granite rocks near the top?"

"Nearly at the highest point of the hill on the north side. Folks can't decide whether Nature or man formed the cave. 'Tis made of granite, as though hewn out of the rock; and many years ago there was a great granite boulder in front of the opening, but that was rolled away long since. 'Tis said a hermit lived and died there; and, as in the case of Moses, no one but God knows where he was buried, but I can't vouch whether that's true or not."

"Oh, Theo, don't you know?" Jack cried. "There are no hermits now-a-days, at least I don't think there are, but they used to be very holy men, who lived alone, and spent their lives in prayer. I suppose they were very good," he added doubtfully, "but it seems rather a silly idea to live away from everyone else, doesn't it?"

"So it does, sir," the blacksmith agreed, "but I've heard tell those old hermits were a great deal thought of in their time, and I suppose they fancied they were doing right. Perhaps they did the best they knew, and if so, they couldn't do more, as God will remember at the Judgment Day."

"I think we ought to be going now," Jack remarked regretfully, "or mother will wonder where we are. May we come to see you again?"

"I shall be very pleased to see both of you whenever you honour me with a visit," Seth Stanley responded heartily, a pleasant smile brightening his dark countenance. "Good morning to you, young gentlemen!"

"Good morning!" shouted the boys as they ran across the green, looking back and waving their hands to their new friend, who stood watching them till they turned down the road which led to Blackburn Farm.

"Jack," said Theodore, as out of breath they slackened their pace, "wouldn't you like to see the Hermit's Cave?"

"Indeed I should! Shall we ask mother to take us there one day?" Jack suggested.

"No, no!" Theodore cried hastily. "It would be much nicer if we went by ourselves, then we could pretend we were explorers, don't you see?"

"She lets us go about the village by ourselves, and sometimes we're away hours. Oh, Jack, let's go alone! Fancy how jolly it would be! We would play that we were in a foreign country, where no one but savages had ever been before! Oh, it would be splendid!"

Jack agreed that it would. There was a charming novelty in the idea, which was very alluring.

"If we told your mother where we were going, if she did not go herself she might want to send Jane," Theodore continued; "and you know how fussy Jane is. She wouldn't let us out of her sight; and we couldn't pretend we were explorers if she was there. No, we won't tell any one about the Hermit's Cave, and one of these days we'll walk there by ourselves. Mind, Jack, it's a secret, and you'll be a horrid sneak if you tell."

"Of course I won't, if you don't wish me to," Jack returned, a little indignant at his stepbrother's tone. "You know I'm not a sneak. Only, I don't feel sure that mother would like—"

"Oh, Jack, you talk like a baby!" Theodore interrupted crossly. "Perhaps you're afraid to walk so far on the moors without some one to look after you. Well, if you want a nurse, of course that puts a stop to our planning any fun together. I shall go to the Hermit's Cave alone; and if you tell your mother or any one else about it, I'll never forgive you!"

"Oh, Theo, how can you be so nasty?" Jack cried, looking with reproachful eyes at his stepbrother, whose face was flushed and angry. "Do promise me you won't go alone!"

Jack shook his head. He was not very pleased with Theodore for suggesting he wanted a nurse to look after him, and was therefore disinclined to talk; so the short remaining distance to the farm was walked in silence.

The boys found Mrs. Barton on the look-out for them; and in answer to her question as to where they had been, they gave her an account of their conversation with Seth Stanley, only abstaining from mention of the Hermit's Cave.

"He is such a nice man," Theodore said in conclusion; "much nicer than our blacksmith at home!"

"I should not allow either of you to have anything to do with him if he was not," Mrs. Barton told them. "You know your father disapproves of the Blakes—both father and son. I will ask him what he thinks of this Seth Stanley, and hear what he has to say."

"I daresay he is, my dear. I think he must be, judging from what you have said. I saw him standing in his doorway when I passed there the other day, and I thought he looked an ideal village blacksmith."

CHAPTER XIV.

THEODORE HAS HIS OWN WAY.

"Do you know the Naraton blacksmith?" Mrs. Barton enquired of her husband, the morning following that on which the boys had spent an hour in Seth Stanley's company.

"Yes," he replied; "but why do you ask? He is a powerful-looking fellow, with a dark, grave face. I am informed he is as honest as the day—a somewhat unusual characteristic for one of his class. He is a gipsy."

"So Theodore and Jack said. They held quite a long conversation with him yesterday, during which he seems to have related his family history to them," and Mrs. Barton repeated all the boys had told her.

Her husband listened with interest, and said he believed it was perfectly true that Seth Stanley's father had been a convict, who had died at Princetown Prison. Every one spoke well of the blacksmith, though some said he had a religious mania. On hearing that Mrs. Barton smiled involuntarily.

"What is the meaning of that smile, Mary?" her husband asked. "What are you thinking."

"That people are always ready to call those they cannot understand a little mad," she responded. "You know St. Paul had to hear the same thing said about him. You remember the remark of Festus: 'Paul, thou art beside thyself; much learning doth make thee mad.' I daresay the blacksmith is no more mad than St. Paul was."

"I think you are very likely right. Anyway, I have not the least objection to the boys talking to him if they please; they will hear nothing wrong from his lips, of that I am certain."

Mrs. Barton was perfectly satisfied after that, and told Theodore and Jack that her husband had a very high opinion of the blacksmith, believing him to be a good, honest man.

For several days Theodore never mentioned the Hermit's Cave, and Jack refrained from reminding him of it, thinking that perhaps, on further consideration, his stepbrother might have come to the conclusion to let the proposed expedition drop. But he was wrong. Theodore still meant to go. He was merely waiting for settled weather, for it had been very showery during the past few days.

One morning when the boys were getting up, Theodore, looking out of the window, saw that the sky was cloudless and a faint blue mist hung over the hills—the promise of a fine day.

"I think the weather looks more settled, don't you, Jack?" he questioned eagerly.

"Yes," Jack assented. "Mr. Fry said last night he thought we were going to have a change, because the distant Tors looked so far away—that shows fine weather, he says. When you come to think of it, we have been able to see a long way off lately."

"So we have. I remember father pointing out the cattle on the sides of the hills, and he said they were miles and miles from us really. Look, Jack, you can hardly see more than a short way to-day."

Jack joined his brother at the window, and gazed upon the beautiful scene that stretched before his eyes—the little village near by, with its old grey church, and beyond, the wide ranges of the hills, with their Tors composed of granite on the crests of the broad moorland. The veil of soft blue mist was rising slowly, and leaving the overlooking hills bathed in dazzling sunshine.

"It doesn't remind me of anything," said Theodore, in matter-of-fact tones; "but it is fine, isn't it? How sweet and fresh the air is," he added, leaning out of the window which he had opened wide, and sniffing appreciatively.

"This one: I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help."

Theodore looked at his stepbrother in an absentminded manner, as though his thoughts were far away, which they actually were.

"About the Hermit's Cave. It looks a good distance away to-day, but it's only about four miles. I asked Seth Stanley how far it was, and he told me. He said he had often walked there, and it never took him more than an hour and a half, although it's a rough journey. You keep on the main road for a bit, and then turn off to the right. There's no real road leading up the hill, only a little path, and it's very rugged on account of the granite; but Seth says, if you fix your eyes on the Tor and make for it as straight as a crow flies, you can't go far wrong. If the weather is really settled, we ought to go some day soon."

"Oh, no! At least it's a good walk, of course; but we shall be able to have a nice rest when we get to the Hermit's Cave, before returning home. I've planned everything. If we start early in the afternoon, we shall be home long before dark."

"Oh, yes; quite sure!" Theodore returned in a sanguine tone. "If Seth Stanley takes an hour and a half to walk there, we shall do it easily in about two hours, have a good while at the Cave, and walk home quietly after tea. We'll tell Mrs. Fry we're going to have a picnic to ourselves, and get her to give us some cake to put in our pockets. But we shall have to wait for an opportunity of going, when the others are out of the way."

"I heard father tell mother he wanted to drive her to Dartmeet the first fine afternoon," Jack said, entering into his stepbrother's plan, though with some doubts in his mind as to its being quite right; "we might go then. But how about Jane? If mother's away, she'll be sure to want to keep us near her."

"Oh, we'll manage old Jane!" Theodore cried lightheartedly, delighted to find Jack was not going to raise any objections. "You leave her to me."

Whilst they were at breakfast that morning, Mr. Barton spoke of the proposed drive to Dartmeet, saying that Mr. Fry had kindly volunteered to lend Boxer and the gig for the occasion.

"So if the weather remains fine, as I believe it will, we'll go to-morrow, Mary," he said to his wife. "You and I will have a quiet picnic by ourselves."

"That will be very nice," Mrs. Barton replied, smiling. Then her eyes met Theodore's, fixed upon her with a look of eager anxiety which she failed to understand, but fancied that perhaps he was disappointed at the idea of having to remain at home; and her kind heart prompted her to turn to her husband and ask, "How about the boys?"

"Oh, they will be all right, Mary!" he answered promptly. "They can't come to any harm here."

"I don't want to go to Dartmeet," Theodore interrupted hastily, turning very red.

"Nor do I," Jack added, flushing also, and carefully avoiding his mother's eyes.

"That's all right, then," Mr. Barton remarked easily. "The gig is certainly a large one, and Boxer is a powerful horse; but it would be a crush if we took you boys with us."

The following day was beautifully fine; and after an early dinner, Mr. and Mrs. Barton started for their drive. The boys watched the departure, and as soon as the gig was out of sight, looked at each other with meaning smiles.

"We ought to get away as soon as we possibly can," Theodore said, "but we must find out what Jane means to do."

"She's in her own room sewing now," Jack returned, "because as I came downstairs the door was ajar, and I saw her. Don't you think we'd better slip off without letting her know?"

"No," Theodore replied decidedly, after a moment's reflection; "you wait for me here, and I'll go and speak to her."

Theodore accordingly ran upstairs, calling upon Jane, who answered him from her bedroom, telling him to come in. She was seated nearing the window, engaged in darning stockings. "What a deal of work you and Master Jack make for me!" she exclaimed, indicating a great hole in the stocking she had pulled over her left hand, and looking good-humouredly at her little master.

"I am very sorry, Jane," he responded, with unusual meekness in his tone, "but things wear out very quickly, don't they?"

"I should think they do, especially when they belong to someone who's always climbing trees, or crawling on his hands and knees up hedges, or falling into ditches," she reminded him, casting an affectionate glance at the little figure now hovering around her dressing-table. "What are you doing, Master Theodore?" she asked suspiciously.

"Oh, nothing," he answered evasively, which was not true, for, without being seen, he had managed to convey a box of matches from the dressing-table to the pocket of his trousers. "I came to know what you intend to do this afternoon, Jane," he added. "Are you going out?"

"I'll take you and Master Jack for a nice long walk presently, but I must finish these stockings first. You can wait for me in the parlour," she told him.

"Will you be long?" Theodore asked, feeling for the first time a little hypocritical as he put the question.

Theodore retired, closing the door gently behind him. Then he rushed downstairs and joined Jack, who was waiting for him, looking decidedly uneasy, having been thinking matters over.

"It's all right," Theodore told him, reassuringly. "She won't be ready to go out for half an hour and by that time we shall have gone a good way. Come and let us ask Mrs. Fry to give us some cake to put in our pockets."

"You're surely not going to cry off now!" Theodore exclaimed in disgust, his eyes sparkling with anger.

"No, no. But I thought Jane might be frightened when she found us gone, and—and—" Jack paused, stammering and flushing beneath his stepbrother's scornful look.

"And—and—," Theodore mimicked impatiently. "What a coward you are. Look here, Jack, do you mean to go with me, or don't you?"

"Because if you don't want to come, say so and stay at home. Don't come and then say I made you."

Theodore led the way to the kitchen, and from thence into the dairy, where they found Mrs. Fry skimming the cream from a pan of milk.

"Well, my dears," she said, turning at the sound of their footsteps on the slated floor; "so you've not gone to Dartmeet?"

"No, Mrs. Fry," Theodore returned, "but Jack and I are going to have a little picnic by ourselves, and we thought perhaps you would be so kind as to let us have some cake to take with us."

"To be sure," the good woman responded briskly; "you had an early dinner, and will be hungry long before tea-time I've no doubt. But you must wait whilst I finish taking the cream from this pan of milk. I don't suppose you're in a hurry."

The boys could not contradict her, so there was no alternative but to stand quietly by until she had finished her task. Then they returned with her to the kitchen, where she produced a large, home-made cake from a cupboard, and cutting off two substantial hunches, wrapped them in paper, and handed one to each boy. They thanked her gratefully, and, slipping out of the back door, made their way across the yard, where they encountered the farmer with Help at his heels as usual. The boys hurried past him with a few words to the effect that they were starting for a long walk. Mr. Fry stopped, and stared after them, wondering why they were in such a hurry, and where they were going.

"The half hour must be nearly up," Theodore said, glancing over his shoulder nervously, as though he expected to see someone coming to stop them, as he closed the yard gate after following Jack into the road. "Jane's window is at the other side of the house, luckily. She won't catch us now."

"No," Jack agreed, rather breathlessly. "I don't think we need walk quite so fast."

Accordingly they slackened their pace, and proceeded at a more moderate rate. Their spirits rose as they left Blackburn Farm further behind them, and realised that there was now no chance of their being stopped. The afternoon was before them to spend as it suited their pleasure; and with the grey-topped Tor in the distance as the goal of their ambition, they took the road with merry hearts, determined to find and explore the Hermit's Cave.

CHAPTER XV.

ON THE MOORS.

AT first the boys kept to the main road, the hedges of which were decked with primroses intermingled with clumps of wild hyacinths—the bluebells of Devon; and myriads of scentless dog-violets, blooming amid moss which spread luxuriantly everywhere, as a tender green background for ferns and flowers. It was one of those days when the fresh beauty of spring-time yet lingered, though summer was near at hand. The air was fragrant with the scent of newly-turned earth, mingling with the delicate perfumes of primroses and hyacinths, and the whole world was full of budding life.

The boys had soon to leave the road for a narrow path, which led off to the right, and presently they were on the desolate moor, away from the green hedgerows. There were no flowers now but the yellow gorse, and no moss but the hoary lichen which clung to the granite stones and boulders, around which they picked their way. The heather was springing freshly at the roots beneath the dead brown crop of the preceding year.

"How hot it is!" Jack cried. "I wish there was a little shade! Oh, Theo, listen to that lark!"

Both boys paused, and gazed upwards into the cloudless blue sky, trying to discern the little songster as it carolled forth its glad melody, so full of joy, as though in thanks to the Creator for the gift of life.

"I can't see it! The sun dazzles my eyes!" Theodore said. "Oh, yes! there it is, ever so high up!"

"Yes, I see it!" Jack exclaimed delightedly. "It seems to be going higher and higher, right up to heaven almost! No, it is coming down!"

"I expect it has a nest somewhere in the heather," Theodore remarked. "Father says larks always build on the ground. Once I heard him repeat a piece of poetry about the lark, but I forget it. I never can remember poetry!"

"Wasn't it: 'Hark the lark at heaven's gate sings'?" Jack enquired; then, as Theodore nodded assent, he continued: "I was thinking of that when I saw it was right up to heaven almost. I wonder what its song means, Theo? Isn't it wonderful, a small bird like that should have such a wonderful voice? I expect God likes to hear it sing!"

Theodore glanced at his stepbrother's bright face, and laughed good-humouredly. Jack had such queer ideas he thought.

"Seth Stanley said the other day he was sure God liked everyone to be happy," Jack proceeded eagerly, "and didn't want anyone to be miserable; but sometimes even good people were melancholy, and he supposed God made them so, like the owls who hate the sunshine. I would rather be a singing-bird than an owl, I'm sure; though Seth thinks God cares for both alike. What do you think, Theo?"

"Oh, I don't know anything about it, Jack! You're awfully odd, you know, and so is Seth Stanley. Come along, we mustn't dawdle, for we are not nearly at the Hermit's Cave yet."

The path now began to lead upwards towards the Tor, which they were approaching by slow degrees. Jack's footsteps lagged somewhat, and at length he suggested a rest by the way. Theodore demurred at first, for he was eager to reach their destination; but seeing his stepbrother was really tired he gave in; and they sat down on the heather with their backs resting against a block of granite.

"Suppose we eat some of our cake?" Theodore suggested; "I'm as hungry as a hunter; aren't you, Jack?"

"I think I'm more thirsty than hungry," Jack said; "I wish there was some water near!"

"But there isn't! We're miles away from the Dart, and the further up we go the further we shall be from getting anything to drink."

"Never mind!" Jack replied cheerfully. "I wonder what that old hermit did for water?"

"I'm sure I can't say. I wish I had thought of bringing some in a bottle, but it would have been a nuisance to carry. I expect explorers have to go for days and days without water, so we must do the same. Do try to eat some cake."

"Break it in half," Theodore advised, "and we'll eat a bit each, and keep the rest till by-and-bye."

This they did. The fresh moorland air had sharpened their appetites, and they found Mrs. Fry's home-made cake excellent. Theodore could have eaten the whole of his slice, but he knew he would be hungrier later on, so he carefully wrapped up the remaining half, and restored it to his pocket.

"Let us stay here a little longer," Jack said pleadingly; "there's no hurry, is there?"

"Oh, no!" Theodore answered; "there's plenty of time. I wish we had a watch, though!"

"Mr. Fry says he can tell the time by the sun," Jack remarked; "he says it's better than any watch, because you can depend upon it. But you are going to have a watch soon, aren't you, Theo?"

"Yes; father said he'd give me one on my next birthday. I should not be surprised if he gave you one too."

"Oh, do you think he will?" Jack asked, flushing with delight at the idea. "But no," he added, his face falling, "that is not likely."

"Why not? Why shouldn't you have one as well as me?" Theodore enquired in surprise. "You would like a watch of your own, wouldn't you?"

"Yes; but you and I are different. You are father's real son, Theo, and I'm not."

"Oh, is that what you mean? Why, father thinks a lot of you, Jack; he's awfully fond of you! And we're just like real brothers, aren't we?"

"I want you always to have the same as me," Theodore continued, earnestly. "I shall tell father so; he will understand. I shouldn't care for a watch unless you had one, too."

Theodore spoke truly, for never since he had first met his stepbrother had he experienced the least jealousy on his account. It had been so impossible to be jealous of the little lame invalid, who had appealed to the pity and generosity of his chivalrous heart; and by the time Jack had made a recovery, the two boys had become deeply and sincerely attached to each other, and nothing had occurred to interfere with their mutual love.

Theodore rarely spoke much of Mrs. Barton to Jack, but Jack was fully aware that his stepbrother felt a sense of restraint in his mother's presence, and was never quite the same happy, careless boy when she was near. This surprised, as well as grieved him, but he had never mentioned the subject to Theodore, dimly realising that he was powerless to improve matters. Jack loved his mother dearly, and he could not understand why Theodore should not too.

They had sometimes to go on their hands and knees.

"We must really get on," Theodore said at length, after they had rested themselves for a considerable time, idly watching a few shaggy-maned ponies at a little distance, too timid to come near the intruders.

So the boys rose, and proceeded on their way, which became rougher and steeper the higher they climbed. They had sometimes to go on their hands and knees, and Theodore laughed merrily, wondering what Jane would say could she see them.

It was fine fun though! They thoroughly enjoyed the difficulties to be overcome, for it was easy to imagine themselves explorers in a foreign country. After leaving Mr. Fry in the farmyard they had not met a living soul, or passed a human habitation, though they had occasionally caught a glimpse of a lonely cottage or farm-house on the slope of a distant hill.

The top of the Tor was reached at last, and both boys flung themselves on the hard ground to regain their breath. Jack was looking utterly done up, and he held his hand to his side.

"What's the matter?" Theodore asked, with a slight feeling of alarm. "You are not ill, are you, old fellow?"

"Oh, that will soon pass. That's nothing. Keep still, and you'll be all right in a few minutes."

Jack took his stepbrother's advice. Very soon he felt better, but he still looked pale. "My legs shake so," he explained in an apologetic tone. "What a long way we have come. Aren't you tired?"

"Not in the least. Don't you think you had better stay here and rest whilst I go and find the Hermit's Cave?" Theodore suggested.

"Let me see. Seth Stanley said the cave was on the north side of the Tor," Theodore said reflectively; "now, which side is that, I wonder?"

"I'm sure I don't know. The sun sets in the west; we ought to be able to tell by that."

"But the sun is not setting yet. Still, the cave can't be on the sunny side. That's certain. Let us try this way."

They set to work, searching amongst the boulders of granite, but it was a long time before they could find any aperture which looked like the entrance to a cave. At last, when they feared their quest was in vain, and were almost in despair, Theodore gave an exultant cry. He had discovered a hole between two blocks of granite, and called to Jack to come and look.

"Yes, this must be it," Jack said, excitedly, "but I can't see anything inside, Theo. Do you mean to go in?"

Theodore proceeded to pull an end of candle, about two inches in length, and the box of wax matches he had purloined from Jane's dressing-table, from the depths of his trousers' pockets.

"There!" he cried, triumphantly, as he struck a light and lit the candle, which had become rather soft and bent.

"You think of everything, Theo," Jack exclaimed, admiringly. "Shall we have to get into the cave through that hole? It's not big enough."

"Oh, yes, it is; only we must crawl in. I'll go first, and you follow. You aren't afraid, are you?"

Theodore went down on his knees, and holding the lighted candle in one hand, and feeling his way with the other, he disappeared through the opening. A minute later Jack heard him utter an exclamation of vexation and dismay; but he was reassured by the sound of his stepbrother's voice saying:

"The candle's gone out; I'll light it again! Wait a minute, Jack. There's plenty of room in here. Now then, come along."

With some misgivings Jack crawled through the opening. As he advanced cautiously, there was more space, and when he reached Theodore's side he found himself in a cave about six feet in height, and large enough to hold several people comfortably. Theodore had successfully relit his candle, and by its feeble light they examined the place, afterwards sitting down on the stony floor side by side to talk matters over.

"This is something like an adventure," Theodore commenced. "Aren't you glad you came, Jack?"

"Yes," Jack replied, pleased with the novelty of the situation, his misgivings entirely gone. "I never saw a cave before; did you?"

"Never. Fancy that old hermit living here by himself! I wonder what made him do it!"

"I don't know. If he was a very good man, perhaps he didn't feel lonely because he knew God was with him. But oh, Theo, I couldn't bear to stay here! could you?"

"No; I should not like it by night," Theodore acknowledged, "though it's very dry and comfortable. Don't you think we might have the rest of our cake now?"

But Jack's appetite had failed. He could not eat the remainder of his cake; so when Theodore had disposed of his own share, he was prevailed upon to finish his stepbrother's too.

They were both very thirsty; but it was no good dwelling on that fact, as there was no water to be had anywhere. Even Theodore was a little tired after their walk and climb, so that he was not as restless and as eager to move about as usual.

They remained in the cave until their candle was nearly consumed; then Jack suggested the advisability of making a start. He was the first to crawl out of the cave, and Theodore followed immediately.

"How cold it is!" the latter exclaimed, as they rose to their feet and looked around; "But there's no sun this side of the Tor—that's how it is."

A faint blue mist was creeping over the hills. Jack noticed it with an uneasy sensation; it looked so like the mist of evening.

"Let us go around to the sunny side," Theodore suggested, with a shiver; "and then perhaps we had better start for home. It seems later than I thought."

"But there is no sun," Jack said. "I think it must have set whilst we were in the cave."

The boys looked at each other in dismay. In which direction lay the village of Naraton? Neither could tell. But Theodore did not want to allow he was as ignorant as his companion. He peremptory bade his stepbrother follow him, and started clambering down the Tor. It had been a difficult climb up; it was far more difficult going down. Once Jack stumbled, but though he cut his knees, he said it was nothing, manfully shaking off the feeling of faintness which threatened to overcome him. At last, however, he was obliged to ask Theodore to allow him a few minutes to rest; and the two boys sat down, whilst the faint blue mist crept nearer and nearer, and a sense of despair took possession of each young heart.

"Oh, Jack!" said Theodore, with a catch in his breath which sounded very like a sob, "what shall we do? We shall never get home?"

"Oh, yes, we shall," Jack replied reassuringly, "we'll start again in a moment."

Jack readily complied. Kneeling on the heather, in spite of his injured knees, he lifted up his voice in prayer to God for help and guidance, whilst Theodore's heart echoed the petition, though his lips uttered no sound. They did not seek to hide their true position from each other any longer, but bravely faced the fact that they had lost their way, and might very probably be obliged to spend the night on the moor, whilst they were being sought for in vain.

CHAPTER XVI.

A TERRIBLE PLIGHT.

"OH, Jack, I wish we had never come," Theodore said dolefully, after his stepbrother had concluded his simple prayer.

"No," Theodore protested, "you did not really want to come, and I—I am sorry I made you. I said you were a coward, but you're not, Jack. It's I who am the coward!"

"Indeed, you're not; you've heaps of pluck. But don't you think we ought to go on now? I'm ready."

"Very well. How dark it's getting. I do hope there'll be a moon to-night. But no I remember it was new moon only a few days ago, so if it does rise it won't give much light."

"Never mind. I daresay we shall find our way home somehow. If only we could manage to get into the main road. I suppose if we were real explorers we should not mind being lost. Oh, what's that?"

Both boys started in sudden fright as a dark object rushed past them in the dim light. It was only a pony, however, and in spite of their anxious position, they laughed the next moment at the shock the harmless creature had given them.

"Do you remember what John Bawdon told us about the Dartmoor fogs?" Theodore questioned presently, as they slowly descended the hill, proceeding more carefully now.

"I don't know; perhaps not. I wonder if they're back from Dartmeet yet? If so, don't you think father will come to look for us?" Theodore suggested in a more hopeful tone.

"But he won't know where we are," Jack responded with a deep-drawn sigh; "we did not tell anyone where we were going. He would never think of looking for us so far away from home."

Theodore's only answer to this reasoning was a burst of tears. Jack, greatly surprised and dismayed, tried in vain to comfort him. He had seen Theodore cry many times from different causes, such as disappointment or anger, but only on one occasion—that on which his stepbrother had been proved instrumental in setting the hay-rick on fire—had he heard him weep in such a heart-broken way as this. The truth was, Theodore's conscience was pricking him sorely, and telling him how wrongly he had acted in overcoming Jack's scruples, and insisting on this expedition without the knowledge of those set in authority over him.

His tears were not caused by fear, although he was naturally very frightened at the prospect of a night on the moor, but rather by remorse at the thought of his conduct. He determined that if they were so fortunate as to reach home in safety, he would take all the blame on his own shoulders. What would his stepmother say if any harm came to her son? Did she not look to him who was so much the stronger, to protect and care for the weaker boy?

"Oh, Theo, please don't cry like that," Jack implored in distressed accents. "I can't bear to hear you."

"Oh, Jack, I'm very wicked!" Theodore replied, striving hard to check his sobs. "I ought never to have brought you here. But I thought we should have such a grand time, and so we did until we found out we were lost. I suppose we took longer coming than we considered. I did not think it would be dark so soon. Did you?"

"No. We stopped a great many times, but that was my fault, not yours," Jack said, generously. "It's getting very dark, isn't it? Keep near me, Theo; won't you? Don't let us lose each other."

Jack clutched Theodore excitedly by the arm. It was now nearly dark, so that distant objects were not discernible at all; but about a hundred yards from the spot where the boys stood was a twinkling light moving in the opposite direction.

"It's a man carrying a lantern!" Theodore cried joyfully. "Let us shout to him to stop."

They both shouted until they were breathless, but the light continued to move away from them. They followed as quickly as they could, hand in hand, so as not to lose each other in the gloom. Suddenly the light disappeared altogether, but the minute after it reappeared, and the boys shouted afresh.

They had now reached the bottom of the hill where the ground was much less uneven, but instead of being dry as it had been on the Tor, it was so soppy in places that their feet were soon very wet, and they shivered in the chill mist.

"Stop!" shouted Theodore, judging from the appearance of the light that it was at a greater distance from them than when they first saw it. "Oh, stop! Hi, you there! Hi! Oh, Jack, the man or whoever it is must be as deaf as a post. Oh, look out!"

The last exclamation was called from Theodore, as Jack gave a piercing scream on suddenly finding himself almost knee deep in mud. Fortunate was ft for him that his stepbrother held his hand, or otherwise he would certainly have brought his short career to a close that night in a Dartmoor bog. As it was, Theodore, as soon as he realised what was happening, tightened his hold on Jack, and with a mighty effort succeeded in pulling him safely on firmer ground. The two boys clung together in the darkness, whilst the misleading light still flickered in the distance, now disappearing altogether, now shining brighter than before.

"Oh, Theo," Jack said, with a shiver of horror, "I don't believe it's a man with a lantern after all!"

"It must be a will-o'-the-wisp! Don't you know what that is? Mother told me; but I never thought I should see one!"

"I don't understand! What is a will-o'-the-wisp? It's a real light, I'm sure! Oh, Jack, you don't think we're pixie-led, do you?" And Theodore, who had been hearing tales of pixies and their elfish tricks from Mrs. Fry, who was fond of discoursing on moorland folk-lore, gave a superstitious shudder.

"No, no! It's a real light which comes over marshy ground! Mother said that people have often followed will-o'-the-wisps into bogs. Oh, Theo, I think that's what we've been doing! Supposing you hadn't been holding my hand just now, the bog would have sucked me in, and I should never have been found. Oh, I wish we could get away from this dreadful, dreadful place! Look, there are two lights! Oh, they must be will-o'-the-wisps!"

It was perfectly true. A second light had appeared, but the boys had no intention of following either now. Even in his terror, Theodore was lost in amazement of the will-o'-the-wisps; but he realised that they had made a great mistake in leaving the higher ground. Very slowly and cautiously they retraced their footsteps, as they thought, but actually they were moving in quite another direction. All at once a sound broke upon their ears, which sent a thrill of hope through each wildly beating heart. It was the cackling of a fowl, evidently disturbed in its sleep by the sound of voices close at hand.

"We must be near a house," Jack breathed in tones of relief, "Oh, how thankful I am!"

Groping their way in the darkness they discovered a hedge, and presently found a small gate, through which they passed into a kitchen-garden, in one corner of which was a little white-washed cottage, with a fowl-house adjoining.

The boys felt that the worst of their troubles must now be over, but what was their disappointment when they found the cottage door locked against them, and no light in any of the rooms. The cottage had evidently no one in it, for though they knocked and knocked, there was no sound from within.

"What shall we do?" Jack asked despairingly. "Had we better wait here, do you think?"

Theodore considered the matter in silence for a few minutes; then he remarked that the cottage was probably near a road, and if they could find it they would very likely come across someone.

"But don't let us go out the way we came," he said, "or perhaps we shall get into boggy land again. There ought to be another way out of the garden. Let me help you to climb up this hedge, Jack, and perhaps you may be able to see what's outside."

Jack willingly agreed to this proposition, and, with Theodore's assistance, succeeded in getting on the top of the hedge. Immediately, he uttered a cry of relief.

"We've come to a road," he informed his stepbrother joyfully; "I can see it quite plainly. I don't believe it's so dark as it was, either!"

"A road!" Theodore exclaimed. "That's splendid! Wait! I'm going to climb up to you! Yes, I think it is lighter; I believe the moon's rising."

Theodore spoke almost cheerfully, for if there was a road he knew it must lead somewhere; but the next moment he uttered a piercing shriek, followed by a groan of agony.

"Theo, Theo, what is it?" Jack asked in a fever of terror. "What have you done? Oh, Theo!"

But Theodore continued to groan without making any reply. Jack scrambled down the hedge and felt his way to his stepbrother's side. Then Theodore gasped:

"I don't know! My left hand's caught in something! Oh, what shall I do? It's like something biting me! Don't touch it! If I move it's worse!"

"You can't! Yes, take the matches from my pocket, and strike a light! Oh, Jack, quickly, quickly!"

Jack obeyed as fast as his trembling fingers allow him. After several vain attempts he succeeded in lighting a wax match, the sight which met his eyes turned him sick with horror. Theodore was leaning against the hedge with his left hand caught between the iron teeth of a fox-gin. The boys saw it was hopeless their trying to open the trap, for the least movement gave Theodore agonising pain. The iron chain attached to the gin was firmly secured to a stake, and no efforts on their part could unfasten it. Poor Theodore's hand was bleeding, and the pain he was suffering was turning him faint and dizzy.

"Oh, yes!" Theodore assented with a bitter wail, which went to Jack's heart. "Oh, I wish father was here! Oh, Jack, can't you ask God to send some one to help us? And I'll ask Him too!"

Jack put his arms around his brother, whilst together in their despair they called upon their Father in heaven. Theodore's voice was growing weaker and weaker, but the feeling of faintness was deadening all sensation of pain. He lay against the hedge motionless when Jack removed his arms from around him, and gave no reply to his stepbrother's frightened request that he would speak to him.

Dreadfully alarmed though he was, Jack did not lose his head, as many boys would have done under the circumstances. There was still one match remaining in the box. This he cautiously lit, and by its feeble light saw that Theodore's eyes were closed, and his face perfectly colourless. For one moment he believed his stepbrother to be dead or dying; but the next, he thought that probably Theodore had only fainted, which was indeed the case.

Jack was the owner of a brave heart, so that after a moment's consideration he decided that he must go to seek assistance. He pressed a gentle kiss on Theodore's cheek; and then clambering up the hedge, dropped into the road on the other side. He did not know which way to go; but with a silent prayer to God to direct his footsteps, he turned to the right, and sped along as fast as his trembling limbs would carry him. He had not gone far before he came to two cross-roads, and after a slight hesitation, again took the right. By that time he was obliged to slacken his speed, for he was breathless and panting. He walked on slowly, holding his hand to his side, and praying that some one might be sent to help him. It was certainly growing lighter, he thought; and raising his eyes to the sky, he saw that the moon had arisen—a thin, silver crescent, it was true, but Jack felt less lonely at the sight.

How tired he was, and how heavy his feet seemed to be getting; they dragged as he walked. Oh, would no one ever come! To think of poor Theodore's pitiable plight all this while. Surely, soon he must reach some house, where he would find people willing to return with him to his stepbrother's assistance.

He struggled valiantly on, fighting against a strong desire to lie down and rest. At last, just as he was thinking that he could go no further, he heard sounds in the distance—carriage wheels, and the barking of a dog. Two lights appeared, coming towards him on the road, not will-o'-the-wisps this time, but the lamps of Mr. Fry's gig; and it was Help who was barking, as he bounded along by Boxer's side.

Jack exerted all his remaining strength, and shouted wildly; whilst Help jumped around him in delight, and old Boxer slackened his speed. The little boy ran forward as the gig stopped. He recognised the voices of Mr. Fry and his stepfather, and heard the latter exclaim: "Here they are, thank God!"

"Why, it's only one of them," Mr. Barton said in tones of misgiving, as he hastily dismounted from the gig. "Jack, is it you?"

"Yes, father," the little boy answered. "Theodore is not here. He is caught in a trap with such dreadful teeth! Oh, you must come quickly, or I am afraid he will die! Oh, poor Theo!"

And overcome with fatigue and fright, Jack threw himself into his stepfather's arms, and burst into a passion of tears and sobs.

CHAPTER XVII.

THEODORE'S DISAPPEARANCE.

WE must now revert to the time when, having finished her task of darning the boys' stockings, Jane had gone downstairs, expecting to have found Theodore and Jack waiting for her to take them for a walk. At first she had believed they were on the premises, probably hiding for fun; but on paying a visit to the kitchen, she had discovered how they had begged cake of Mrs. Fry, saying they were going to have a picnic by themselves, and how the farmer had seen them hurrying away together. She had felt vexed, but had not been in the least anxious on their account; and having realised the folly of trying to find the truants, had spent the afternoon in her own room, employed in needlework for herself. When tea-time had not brought the boys back to the farm, however, she had been seriously annoyed with them; but on Mr. and Mrs. Barton's return, at seven o'clock, her annoyance had given place to direst alarm. In a few words she explained that the boys had gone off without allowing her to know their intentions, and that she had never suspected them of any secret purpose until she found them missing. Mr. Barton had immediately paid a visit to the village, but the boys had not been seen there during that day. When darkness had come on, a search-party had been organised, in which Seth Stanley and several others had joined. The blacksmith, remembering the many questions Theodore had put to him concerning the Hermit's Cave, had started to look for the boys in that spot; whilst the other searchers had disappeared in different directions; and Mr. Barton, in company with Mr. Fry, had driven off to make enquiries in the neighbouring villages. The two latter had been returning to Blackburn Farm after a fruitless quest, when they had met little Jack, and had learned from him of Theodore's terrible plight.

"The poor child must be caught in a fox-trap!" Mr. Barton exclaimed in tones of dismay. "What do you think, Fry?" he asked his companion.

Mr. Fry agreed with Mr. Barton that what Jack called a "trap with such dreadful teeth" would most probably be a fox-gin, and asked Jack to explain where he had left his brother. The farmer knew the cottage well, so the two men took Jack between them in the gig, and drove away as fast as old Boxer could go.

Very few words were spoken, for Mr. Barton was far too concerned about Theodore to ask Jack any questions. Once he said, "My poor boy! my poor Theodore!" and Mr. Fry urged Boxer to increase his speed.

Jack had now somewhat regained his composure, so that when they arrived at the little white-washed cottage he was able to point out the spot where he had left Theodore. The two men got over the hedge, leaving Jack in the gig, with Help in charge, for Boxer's master knew he was to be trusted not to move a step until he returned to him.

Jack shook with suspense and suppressed excitement as he listened to the voices of the others. How would they find Theodore? They were longer than he expected; and presently, being unable to bear the uncertainty any longer, he stood up in the gig to try and look over the hedge; but he could only see the lantern which Mr. Fry was carrying.

"Theodore is not here," was the amazing answer, in his stepfather's voice, which sounded full of bewilderment and anxiety.

"Oh, father, he must be! I am sure that is the right place!" cried Jack, in an agony of terror. "Oh, he must be there!"

"No, he is not. We have found the gin, but some one has been before us. Theodore is not here."

"Perhaps he opened the trap himself," Jack suggested, although he knew that was most unlikely.

"Quite impossible," Mr. Barton responded. "Wait where you are, Jack. We are going to make a thorough search."

Jack sat down again, his mind in a whirl of confusion. Theodore gone! It was marvellous! At any rate, he had been released from the dreadful trap; there was comfort to be found in that thought, at least.

Meanwhile, Mr. Barton and the farmer were holding a consultation on the other side of the hedge. They had found the cruel gin, which had evidently been set to entrap a fox, should one be tempted to visit the hen's roost, with its teeth wide apart, bearing witness to the truth of Jack's story by the blood stains upon it. There were marks of nailed boots near the place, and the hedge had been broken down at the top, as though some heavy person had climbed it. One thing was certain, that Theodore was nowhere near; therefore, it seemed most probable that whoever had released him from the trap had conveyed him away by road.

"The poor boy must have suffered agonies," Mr. Barton said in a tremulous tone as he examined the gin. "What a ghastly instrument of torture it is! I thought it was illegal to set these things?"

The farmer said it was, but added that it was nevertheless often done by poultry-keepers.

The owner of the cottage was an old man, a bachelor, who lived alone—Peter Blake by name. Mr. Fry knew him well, but could not imagine why he was away from home, as he most evidently was.

"I do not see what more we can do," Mr. Barton said at length, with a sigh. "Theodore could not have freed himself from the gin; so whoever released him will doubtless see he has shelter for the night. Jack saw no one from the time he left here till he met us; but some one must have come by way of one of the cross-roads. That some one may have been driving, too, and would most likely take Theodore to Blackburn Farm. I think, Fry, our wisest plan will be to drive right home. It may be we shall find news of Theodore awaiting our return, even if he himself is not there. Let us start at once."

The farmer agreed to this plan. A few minutes later Boxer was again trotting towards Blackburn Farm. No doubt the old horse thought of his comfortable stable and supper of oats, for he exerted himself to trot his fastest, as though he had not already had a long journey that day.

Mr. Barton was intensely anxious about Theodore, though he tried to reassure his little stepson, who was trembling with apprehension of he knew not what.

"If only we could tell where he was," Jack whispered in a tearful voice. "You don't think he can have wandered away, and got lost in a bog, do you, father?"

"No, no; that is impossible! He has found a friend—or rather, a friend has found him."

"I don't think God would let any one hurt Theo," Jack said earnestly, "although He did let him get caught in that trap. Oh, I shall never forget it!" And he hid his eyes against Mr. Barton's sleeve, shuddering at the remembrance of Theodore's white face and closed eyes. "Is mother very frightened?" he asked presently.

"Yes, and Jane too!" Mr. Barton answered. "What made you boys go off without a word to any one, as you did?"

"We wanted to find the Hermit's Cave, and to pretend we were explorers. Oh, it was fine fun until we got lost!" and he proceeded to give an account of the afternoon and evening's adventures.

Mr. Barton's blood ran cold in his veins as the little boy spoke of the will-o'-the-wisps and the bog, whilst Mr. Fry, who was usually the most stolid of men, and rarely spoke except in response to a question, was moved to remark that it was a wonder Jack was there to tell the tale, seeing how near he must have been to one of the most dangerous spots on Dartmoor, which had proved fatal to unwary travellers on several occasions. Arrived at Blackburn Farm, they were surrounded by an excited group before they had time to get down from the gig.

"Here's Jack quite safe," Mr. Barton said immediately, "but have you seen or heard anything of Theodore?"

"No." What did Mr. Barton mean? Was not Theodore with him? Had not the boys been found together?

In a few brief words he explained that he had hoped to get news of his little son on his return, for he had not found him. As he sprang to the ground, and stood in the midst of the group, his wife came forward, and caught him by the arm, imploring him to tell what had happened, and why Theodore was not with him.

"Your boy is all right, Mary," he said gently. "See, there he is in Mr. Fry's arms! He's a bit done up, but no harm has come to him."

As soon as the farmer placed Jack on the ground, he ran to his mother's side. She turned to him and kissed him with tender affection, thanking God in her heart for her darling's safety.

"Come into the house, Mary," Mr. Barton said, striving to speak steadily, but his voice trembled in spite of his efforts to control it, "and then I'll tell you all I know. I'm in great trouble about Theodore!"

At that point Jane interposed. She had been standing by in bewilderment, scarcely realising at first that her master had not brought home Theodore as well as Jack; but now she came forward and enquired, in tones of strong emotion:

"No, Jane," Mr. Barton replied. "I hoped you might have had news of him, but—"

"Where is he?" Jane cried wildly. "You don't mean to tell me you've left him on the moor—to die maybe! Oh, sir, forgive me if I forget myself, and speak as I ought not, but Master Theo's dearer to me than my own life! It was I who took him from his mother's arms, remember! And during the lonely years which followed, it was I who loved and cared for him! Oh, if anything has happened to him—"

"Hush, Jane!" Mr. Barton interrupted in moved tones. "Come inside with us, like a sensible woman, and we will talk matters over."

He led the way into the house, and into the parlour, where the household assembled to know what had become of Theodore; and many were the exclamations of dismay and consternation which greeted his story of the boys' adventures. When he spoke of Theodore's accident, Jane could not restrain her grief; she sobbed aloud, and would not be comforted. But when Jack went to her, and throwing his arms around her neck, mingled his tears with hers, she seemed to realise the folly of her behaviour.

"Oh, Master Jack, how wet and muddy you are, and as white as a sheet, I declare!" she cried, drying her streaming eyes. "I will put you to bed at once!"

"Yes, please, do," Mrs. Barton said quickly, thinking Jane would be better for being employed. "Go, Jack, like a good boy! Mrs. Fry will make you a basin of bread and milk; and I will come to see you after you are in bed."

Mrs. Fry nodded, and left the room to prepare Jack's supper, whilst the boy pleaded hard not to be sent to bed yet.

"Oh, let me stay up till Theo comes!" he cried piteously. "Oh, mother, do! Oh, father, ask her to let me stay up! I can't, I can't go to bed before Theo comes!"

"You must, my dear," his mother told him gently, but firmly; and Jack knew from the tone of her voice that she meant to be obeyed.

Mr. Barton had gone to the window, where he had drawn up the blind, and was now gazing out into the darkness. Jack would have liked to say good night to his stepfather, but his mother motioned to Jane to take him away.

He went upstairs with a bursting heart, his eyes full of tears, his breast heaving with sobs. Jane soon had him in bed; and when she had induced him to swallow the hot bread and milk which Mrs. Fry brought up to his room, she insisted on his closing his eyes, and trying to sleep, whilst she went downstairs to hear if there was any news of Theodore; and if not, what was being done to discover his whereabouts. Presently Jack heard his mother's light footsteps in the room. She came to him, and putting her arms around him, whispered that he must not grieve, for she was sure God would send Theodore back to them in safety; and meanwhile they must pray for him, and hope for the best.

"You should not have made a secret of where you were going," she said, with tender reproach in her loving voice; "you must have known it was not right! See what trouble you boys have brought about! But I will not scold you now, for you must be almost worn out. Try to sleep, my darling boy! I hope and believe that Theodore is in safety somewhere! His father has gone out again in search of him—his poor father!"

Mrs. Barton's voice broke at the remembrance of the white, shocked look on her husband's face. She said good night to Jack, kissed him once more, and turned to leave the room. As she passed Theodore's empty bed, she paused and gently rearranged the pillows, the tears which had been in her eyes all the while she had been talking to Jack, rolling down her cheeks as she thought of the high-spirited little lad, who was dearer to her than he himself guessed. Then she quietly left the room, meeting Jane outside the door, who asked if Jack was asleep yet.

"No," Mrs. Barton replied, "but I believe if we leave him alone he soon will be. Oh, Jane, don't cry any more! Try to think as I do, that God will take care of Theodore. I know how dearly you love him, but don't give way, and anticipate all sorts of misfortunes befalling him."

"When I think of the dear lamb by himself, with his hand in that gin, and suffering horribly, as I know he did, it almost breaks my heart!" Jane declared with a sob; "and now to think he can't be found!"

"But he will be," Mrs. Barton told her reassuringly; "I do really believe he is in safety now!"

Jane sighed deeply, but she dried her tears. After her mistress had gone downstairs, she stole softly into Jack's room, and found him sleeping the heavy sleep of utter exhaustion. She dropped on her knees by the bedside, and prayed fervently that God would restore her other little charge to her care. She had forgotten that Theodore had ever worried her, had ever been troublesome or disobedient; she remembered only his good qualities, his brave spirit, his warm loving heart; and it wrung her faithful soul to think of him lost—disappeared in so short a while, and in such a mysterious way.

"God bless him! God keep him, and send him home again!" were the words she kept repeating; and presently she arose from her knees, and went downstairs, her spirit calmed, to await with her mistress whatever news might come.

CHAPTER XVIII.

IN THE CARAVAN.

WHEN Mr. Barton started afresh in search of his little son it was with a very heavy heart, for he imagined that there was small likelihood of his gaining any information about Theodore that night; but he was far too troubled and restless to remain inactive, and therefore returned to the spot from which the boy had disappeared.

It was eleven o'clock when he left the farm, so that it was long past midnight before he reached the white-washed cottage, and climbing the hedge which divided the kitchen-garden from the road, sought the place where the fox-gin still remained, as he and Mr. Fry had left it more than two hours before. Once again he examined the iron trap, and carefully searched the surrounding ground. He was moving away, meaning to ascertain if the owner of the cottage had returned, when the sound of footsteps in the road made him pause and listen. A second later the footsteps stopped directly outside the hedge where Mr. Barton stood.

"This is where I found him," said a strange voice. "'Tis cruel work I call it, setting fox-gins."

"What! you found him in Peter Blake's garden!" cried another voice, which fell familiarly on the listener's ears. "You don't say so! Well, I always knew the old man was a cross-grained chap, and I've heard him grumble about the foxes often enough; but I never thought he did a little trapping on his own account."

Mr. Barton waited to hear no more, but hastily clambered over the hedge, and sprang into the road close to the speakers, one of whom was the Naraton blacksmith, and the other, as it afterwards transpired, his brother, Moses Stanley.

"Yes, it is I. I judge from your conversation that you have seen my little son."

"He's safe enough, sir," was the reassuring answer. "My brother found him with his hand caught in a fox-gin, and took him to his caravan, where he is at this moment, not ten minutes' walk from this spot."

"Thank God!" Mr. Barton exclaimed fervently. "His stepbrother left him, and went for assistance. Fortunately, Fry and I met him before he had gone very far; but on reaching here, we found Theodore had disappeared. You can imagine what my feelings have been!"

"Ah, that I can!" the blacksmith said, with a world of sympathy in his voice. "But where is Jack?"

"I've been miles and miles myself looking for the young gentleman, and was going home in despair when I chanced upon the Fairies' Glen and my brother's caravan. Chanced! No! there was no chance about it, I reckon! 'Twas the hand of Providence which guided my steps! In the Fairies' Glen I found Miriam—she's Moses' wife, sir—and the young ones. Then as I was talking with them, hearing where they'd been since I saw them last, home comes Moses carrying Master Theodore in his arms. 'Hulloa, Moses,' said I, 'what have you got there?' ''Tis a youngster as my dog found in a fox-gin,' said Moses, 'and he's a bit faint. Miriam must see to him.' I declare you could have knocked me down with a feather!"

"Yes, yes!" cried Mr. Barton eagerly, failing to see the absurdity of the blacksmith's last remark, as he would have done on any ordinary occasion.

"Miriam, she put him in her own bed," the blacksmith proceeded, "and after she had bathed and bound up his hand he soon came around. We gave him some warm milk, and after that he soon closed his eyes, and seemed more comfortable."

"Will you take me to him?" Mr. Barton asked turning to Moses, who had not yet spoken. "I can never be sufficiently thankful to you for having befriended my poor little boy, but having children of your own you will understand my feelings, I am sure. Your caravan is near by? Pray take me there at once!"

"No," the blacksmith answered; "I can't do any good. You'd best let Master Theodore bide where he is for the night, sir," he added, addressing Mr. Barton.

"No," Moses answered promptly. "Miriam said he ought to be kept quiet; and we've a tent as well as the caravan. Let the little gentleman remain, if you please, sir."

"Thank you," Mr. Barton responded gratefully, "I shall be very glad if you will keep him. Seth, if you are going home, would it be too much to ask you, after all the trouble you've taken, to call at the farm, and let them know there of my little boy's safety?"

"No, sir. I shall be only too pleased to be the bearer of such good news!" was the cordial reply. "'All's well that ends well.' Good night, sir! Good night, Moses!"

The blacksmith started homewards at a swinging pace, whistling as he went, whilst Mr. Barton and his companion took the opposite direction.

Mr. Barton saw that Moses was very like his brother in height and build, but appeared a less talkative person, though he was evidently deeply interested in Theodore's adventures, and remarked that he was a fine little lad, and would like to deal himself with the man who had set the fox-gin.

When they came to the cross-roads, the gipsy took the one leading to the left—a narrow, rugged lane it was in reality, from which they presently turned into a rough, granite-strewn field, at the lower end of which was the Fairies' Glen, a natural hollow between high banks, covered with mossy sward, dotted with primroses and dog-violets.

Mr. Barton had never been there before, and he uttered an exclamation of surprise and admiration at the sight of the picturesque scene which met his eyes in the faint moonlight. The caravan had been placed at the entrance to the glen, slightly on one side, and close by, a tent had been erected. A peat fire smouldered at a little distance, over which a crock was suspended; whilst a grey horse was tethered at the back of the caravan.

Moses pointed to the tent, explained that his children were sleeping there to-night so as not to disturb the young gentleman, and said that the handsome greyhound stretched at the entrance was the dog that had been the real discoverer of Theodore; having found him, and called his master's attention to him by his sharp barks. Mr. Barton stooped down and patted the animals sleek head gratefully, whilst his companion tapped at the door of the caravan.

The door opened, and a dark, handsome young woman appeared at the top of the steps of the caravan. She was clad in a bright blue skirt, a scarlet bodice, and wore a gaudy amber-coloured neckerchief tied loosely around her throat.

"I'm glad the gentleman's come," she said simply, "for the poor little lad has become very restless, and I've had great difficulty in quieting him. Please to come in, sir!"

Mr. Barton obeyed with alacrity, for he was keenly anxious to see Theodore, to judge for himself how he was. He had never been inside a gipsy's caravan before, so he was surprised to find everything very neat and comfortable, and scrupulously clean; but when he saw Theodore on his hostess' bed he forgot all else, and hastened to his side.

"Oh, Theodore, thank God I have found you at last!" he exclaimed in tones of glad relief as he bent over his little son.

Theodore was looking flushed, and his eyes shone with unnatural brightness as he moved his head uneasily from side to side on the pillow. He met his father's glance with one full of dismay and terror.

"I am not angry, Theodore," Mr. Barton said, pressing a kiss on the boy's hot brow, and taking his uninjured hand. "Try not to excite yourself. Don't think of what you've gone through more than you can possibly help, for it's all over now."

"No, dear Theodore, he is not," was the reassuring answer. "He is at Blackburn Farm, and in bed and asleep by this time, I do not doubt. You need not trouble about Jack."

An expression of intense relief crossed Theodore's face. "I don't understand," he said feebly. "I thought—I feel so queer—I suppose it must have been a dream, but I thought Jack had fallen into a bog."

"No, no; you managed to get caught in a fox-gin though, and hurt your poor hand. See, it is bandaged. But Jack is perfectly safe and sound."

"Really and truly," his father answered, earnestly. "I don't believe I ought to let you talk. Are you comfortable? I think you'll have to spend the night here—if you will be so good as to let him remain," Mr. Barton added, turning to Miriam, who was standing by.

"The little gentleman is welcome," she replied with that simple courtesy which is so often an attribute of the gipsy race.

"She has been very kind," Theodore told his father. "I think she is a very grand person although she is a gipsy. She says her great-great-grandfather was a king."

"I have been trying to amuse him, and keep his thoughts away from his troubles," Miriam explained, overhearing Theodore's remark, whispered though it was, a blush showing through her clear, dusky skin. "I fear his hand gives him pain," she added, sympathetically.

"It will soon heal," Miriam said, noting the anxiety on the father's face; "I have some knowledge of wounds, and have cured worse hurts than this by bathing with a simple preparation made from herbs. I have dressed his hand carefully, and now that you have come and his mind is more easy, I think he will sleep. You would like to stay with him the night?"

"I should," Mr. Barton replied, hesitatingly, "but I fear I shall be in the way, I—"

"No, no," she interrupted, hospitably, "we have a tent outside and my husband and I will sleep with the children to-night. Please don't think we mind. Here is milk if the little gentleman is thirsty, and do not fail to call me for anything you want."

She smiled at Theodore, and withdrew. A minute later they heard her voice talking to her husband outside, and then followed silence.

The inner division of the caravan where Theodore lay in bed was lighted by a small lantern, which was suspended from the roof. By its faint, yellow light Mr. Barton watched Theodore's uneasy movements and flushed countenance with growing anxiety. He did not know that his presence had a disturbing influence on his son, nor did he guess the grief and remorse that was in Theodore's heart, until the silence was broken by a sob, and Theodore's head suddenly disappeared beneath the bedclothes.

Mr. Barton was stricken with astonishment. He hardly knew how to act or what to say, being in ignorance of the cause of Theodore's grief. But presently Theodore's head reappeared, and the little boy said with an heroic effort to speak without crying,—

"It was all my fault. I know Jack won't say so, but it was. He didn't want to go to the Hermit's Cave, but I made him; and if he had died in a bog it would have been my fault, and his mother would have hated me, and so would you, father! I—I never should have been happy any more."

"What are you talking about, Theodore?" Mr. Barton questioned. "Come, my boy, tell me all about it. You know it is not possible that I could ever hate you, and as for my wife—why, she never hated anyone in her life, I'm certain. Why should you think it? You are not fair to her. I have often thought you must have been prejudiced against her, but I don't wish you to tell me by whom," he said hastily. "When I married her I hoped she would be a mother to you as I hoped to be a father to her little son, but you would not allow her to love you—from the first you were against her. She wanted to make up to you, as far as lay in her power, for the loss you sustained when your own dear mother died, but—"

"They said you would think more of Jack than of me," Theodore broke in, "but I did not care. I was never jealous of Jack. I—I don't mind if you do like him best. He's better than me."

"Oh, Theodore!" Mr. Barton exclaimed, greatly shocked, "you distress me beyond measure. Jack is a gentle, winning little fellow, but you are my own son—the dearest object I possess. Come, confide in me the cause of your grief. What is it that is weighing upon your mind?"

Thus encouraged, Theodore gave an excited account of the way in which he had overcome Jack's scruples, and induced him to visit the Hermit's Cave. He did not spare himself, but took the entire blame upon his own shoulders, at the same time begging his father to forgive him, and imploring him to assure his stepmother that Jack was not in fault.

"It was all my doing," he said in conclusion, looking wistfully up into Mr. Barton's grave face. "I know I'm a great worry and trouble—Jane says so often, but I never before tried to make Jack do anything wrong."

"And I trust you never will again," his father returned, seriously. "God, in His infinite mercy, saved you both from a horrible death to-night, for if you had fallen into the bog—but there, I will not contemplate that. Thank God, I have you still!"

All through the night Mr. Barton sat by the bedside, and, now that Theodore had made his confession, his father's presence disturbed him no longer, but rather gave him a sense of security, for presently he fell asleep. His was an uneasy slumber, however, with disturbed dreams, for he cried out constantly that Jack was lost, and started up in bed on several occasions, shaking with fright, to be reassured by his father's voice that all was well.

It was with a sense of relief that Mr. Barton at length saw through the tiny window of the caravan that the dawn of another day was breaking, and knew that his vigil was nearly at an end.

CHAPTER XIX.

EXPLANATIONS AND FORGIVENESS.

WORN out with fatigue as little Jack was, it was small wonder he slept soundly the night following his harrowing experiences on the moor, in spite of his deep concern about his stepbrother. He was awakened by the sound of voices, and opened his eyes to see Jane standing by his bedside with a tray containing his breakfast in her hands, and his mother bending over him. With awakening thought came remembrance of last night's adventures; and he started up in bed, looking eagerly around for Theodore, an expression of distress and sorrow on his countenance.

"Theodore is safe, my darling," Mrs. Barton said, as she kissed her little son. "I will tell you where he is, and all I know about him, whilst you eat your breakfast."

"And mind you eat all you can, Master Jack," Jane told him, "for you are looking but poorly this morning. But there!" with an indignant sniff, "'tis no wonder, I'm sure! I hope all that happened to you yesterday will be a wholesome lesson to you, and Master Theodore too."

Now that her mind was at rest concerning the safety of her little master, Jane felt it would be a great relief to her feelings to give the boys both a good scolding; and she had the satisfaction of seeing a guilty flush rise to Jack's pale face before she left the room.

Alone with his mother, he soon learnt what had befallen his stepbrother after he had left him; for the blacksmith, true to his promise, had called at the farm ere he had returned to his home, and had told all he knew concerning Theodore. It was now nine o'clock, and further news was expected every minute; for Mrs. Barton rightly guessed that her husband would bring Theodore back to the farm as soon as possible.

At first Jack's mind had room for only one thought—his stepbrother's safety. But as his mother talked to him, he saw that her eyes were full of reproach, and his conscience told him the cause.

"Jack," she said at length, "you knew you and Theodore were acting wrongly yesterday, did you not?"

"We meant to be home before dark," Jack began, then added quickly, "oh, mother, I knew all the time you wouldn't have let us go alone if you'd known!"

The sorrowful tone of his mother's voice cut Jack to the heart; a great lump rose in his throat, and he restrained his tears with an effort.

"You boys have made us very unhappy, and upset the whole household—nay, more, the whole village!"

"I am very sorry," Jack repeated; "I am indeed! I hate to think we have made you miserable, and given so much trouble to everybody. We did not mean to get lost."

"Well, I will say no more about it, for I think you have had punishment enough. But I hope you will never act so wrongly again."

"I do believe it. When you say your prayers, do not forget to thank God for His mercy in saving you from a horrible death last night. Oh, my boy, shudder when I think what might have happened!"

A hot tear splashed down Jack's cheek, but he wiped it hastily away. His mother saw that he was truly repentant, and said no more; but before she left him she gave him a loving kiss, which he knew expressed her full forgiveness.

His breakfast finished, Jack got up and proceeded to dress. He felt very tired, but otherwise perfectly well. A long while he knelt in prayer, for he had so much to thank God for this morning, and he did not forget to humbly ask pardon for his wrong-doing. He realised quite well that he ought not to have allowed Theodore to influence him to visit the Hermit's Cave without Mr. and Mrs. Barton's knowledge; but his fear of being thought a coward had made him fall in with his stepbrother's plans. He had known it was wrong—there lay the sin.

When Jack went downstairs he found a messenger had just arrived to say that Mr. Barton and Theodore were coming; and presently a caravan was seen entering the farmyard, drawn by a large grey horse, followed by a group of dark, curly-haired gipsy children. Moses Stanley walked at the horse's head, whilst his wife rode in front of the caravan.

Neither Mr. Barton nor Theodore were visible until the caravan came to a full stop in front of the door, and Moses let down the steps, when the former appeared and smiled as he caught sight of his wife, who with Jack and the rest of the household had come into the yard.

"How is Theodore?" Mrs. Barton asked, whilst Jane tried to peer into the caravan.

"Not very bright, of course, Mary; but better than I expected he would have been this morning," was the response.

Even as Mr. Barton spoke, Theodore appeared at his side, looking very white and crestfallen.

Jane caught him in her arms, and bore him triumphantly into the house, covering his face with kisses; which treatment secretly irritated him greatly, for he felt his position anything but dignified for a boy of his age.

In the parlour, Jane laid him on the sofa, and stood back herself to allow Jack a few words with his stepbrother. But the boys had very little to say to each other then. Jack merely enquired how Theodore was feeling, and if his hand was sore; whilst Theodore murmured in a husky voice:

Mrs. Barton remained in the yard to speak a few words to Moses and Miriam, and to learn that the gipsy family intended to encamp in one of Mr. Fry's fields for a few days. When she entered the parlour with her husband, Theodore glanced at her nervously. She spoke to him in her usual kind and affectionate manner; but he could find no words in response, and a little hurt, she left him to Jane's tender mercies.

Mr. Barton had sent for a doctor to look at Theodore's hand. When he arrived, much to every one's relief he made light of the case, and said the wounds would soon heal; but added that the boy had had a shock, and he must be kept quiet for a few days. He was to get up late, go to rest early, and take life easily.

Theodore smiled with gratification on hearing this; for he looked upon being allowed to breakfast in bed as a great treat, having never done so but on the very few occasions when he had had bad colds, and Jane had indulged him.

He lay on the sofa all day, on the whole finding being an invalid not an unpleasant experience, now that his hand was less painful. He told Jack all about Miriam, and what a cosy home a caravan really was, saying that he thought he would like to be a gipsy, and travel about the country as he pleased.

During the day an unexpected visitor arrived at Blackburn Farm, no other than Peter Blake, the owner of the white-washed cottage and the fox-gin. He was terribly grieved at what had occurred, he told Mr. Barton; he would not have had it happen for any amount of money! He confessed he had set the gin because he was so "worrited" with foxes—that was his only excuse. He hoped the young gentleman was not seriously injured, and if Mr. Barton would refrain from prosecuting him, he would faithfully promise never to set a trap again. As there was no advantage to be gained by prosecuting the old man, Mr. Barton relieved his mind on that score, and accepted his promise. Peter Blake was profuse in his gratitude and thanks, as, indeed, he had good cause to be. He explained his absence from home on the preceding night by telling how he had gone to visit a sick brother living in a neighbouring village, and had sat up with his wife as she had had no one else at hand to assist her in the nursing. When he had returned home early in the morning he had found his gin unset and bloodstained, and the hedge trampled down. Later he had learnt what had befallen Theodore on his premises, and had hastened to Mr. Barton to express his regrets.

"I hope I have done right in letting the matter pass thus," Mr. Barton said to his wife when Peter Blake had gone, much relieved at the knowledge that Theodore's hand was doing well, and with the assurance that he would not be prosecuted, "but Fry tells me the old man will have all the hunting folks in the county down on him for having tried to entrap a fox, and I judged he would find that punishment enough."

That same afternoon Mr. Barton asked Jack, who was hovering about his stepbrother with tender solicitude, if he would like to pay the gipsies' encampment a visit; and accordingly the two started off together, leaving Theodore and Mrs. Barton alone. She moved her chair close to the boy's sofa, and strove hard to amuse him, but it was a thankless task, for Theodore was disinclined for conversation, being secretly annoyed because Jack had left him.

"Shall I read to you?" Mrs. Barton asked, "or would you like me to tell you a story?"

Theodore declared his head ached, and he wanted to be quiet. On hearing this, his stepmother removed her chair to the opposite side of the room, and took up some needlework. Theodore watched her wistfully, regretting that he had driven her away. He thought her face looked a little sad and pale, and once he fancied he heard her sigh. She must have been very anxious about Jack last night, he remembered, and he was conscious that he ought to exonerate his stepbrother from blame in her sight.

"It was all my fault yesterday," he said, bluntly, "I mean that we got lost. Did Jack tell you how I made him go?"

"I told father all about it, and he forgave me," Theodore proceeded. "I—I should like to tell you too."

"If any harm had come to Jack it would have been my fault, because I made him go with me, I did. He didn't want to go at all. So he never told you? Well, he is a brick!" Theodore's tone was full of admiration for his stepbrother. "I suppose he didn't want to get me into a row," he continued, "but I hope you didn't scold him. Oh, I don't know what I should have done if anything had happened to Jack."

"Tell me all about it, Theodore," Mrs. Barton said, looking mystified. "How did you make Jack go? Even if you did influence him he was to blame all the same."

Theodore entered into an explanation, concealing nothing. When he had finished his tale he said, dolefully, "Father thought you would forgive me, but perhaps he didn't know."

"Oh, yes, yes; he was quite right. Say no more about it, Theodore. God has given you boys back to us, and I don't believe you will ever try to induce Jack to do wrong again."

"Theodore," said Mrs. Barton, gently, "I am going to speak to you as I speak to Jack, as though you were my own son, because I love you dearly, and—"

"Do you really?" Theodore asked, his cheeks flushing, his eyes shining brightly. "Do you really love me when I've been so naughty, and made Jack naughty too?"

There was a struggle going on in the boy's heart at that moment between a strong desire to respond to his stepmother's affection, and the wilfulness and pride he had harboured so long.

"I—I don't deserve you should," he said, falteringly, "because I'm not good like Jack. I should like to be, but I can't."

Mrs. Barton rose impulsively from her seat, and, crossing the room, knelt down by Theodore's sofa, so that his face was on a level with hers. There were tears in her soft, brown eyes—eyes so like her little son's—and at the sight Theodore's mistrust of his stepmother died for ever, and, flinging his uninjured arm around her neck, he gave her the first kiss he had ever voluntarily bestowed upon her.

"I never really hated you," he whispered. "I only said it because I was wicked; I often am, you know. But I mean to be better, and you will help me, won't you, like you help Jack?"

"And I—I will call you 'Mother,'" Theodore continued. "I don't think she will mind—my real mother, I mean."

"No, no. I can never quite make up to you for her loss, my dear, but I will do my best, so that some day I may be able to say to her, 'I did what I could to take your place.'"

This idea pleased Theodore. He remained very quiet for some minutes, then he said, tremulously, "Do you know what I thought when Jack and I were wandering about the moor last night? It was how you would hate me if anything happened to Jack, and—and I knew I hadn't always been nice to you, and I asked God to take care of Jack before me, because I had made him come. Then I got caught in that dreadful gin, and when I woke up in the caravan I couldn't think what had become of Jack, and Seth didn't know, or Moses, or Miriam, or anyone. Oh, you can't think how glad I felt when father came and told me Jack was all right. Nothing seemed to matter after that. I think it was noble of Jack not to tell how I made him go, and when I had been so nasty to him too! I called him a coward, and said all sorts of disagreeable things."

Theodore's face was full of excitement. His stepmother looked at him a trifle anxiously. Rising to her feet she again drew a chair to the side of the sofa, and, seating herself thereon, talked to him in a soothing tone on different subjects till he grew more composed.

Presently Jane came to see how her little master was, but, finding him deep in conversation with his stepmother, would have retired without a word if Mrs. Barton had not stopped her.

"Jane," she said in her pleasant voice, "his father and I have forgiven him the anxiety and trouble he caused us, and we hope you will do the same."

"Yes, please, do, Jane," Theodore said, earnestly. "I am very, very sorry. I suppose you found out I had taken the matches from your dressing-table? I really don't know what we should have done without them."

"Oh, that's what you were up to, was it?" Jane cried. "I found the matches gone; I might have guessed you had them. Well, Master Theodore, if you want my forgiveness you have it, though I do think you treated me badly."

When Jack and his stepfather returned they found Theodore cheerful and happy, with Mrs. Barton seated at his side, looking bright and animated.

"Why, Theo, we've been away two hours nearly," Jack cried. "What have you been doing all the time? I suppose you've been talking?" he said, dubiously.

Again Theodore nodded, but this time he spoke as well. "Nothing to do with anyone besides ourselves," he explained; then added, a little shyly, "secrets between mother and me."

CHAPTER XX.

HOME AGAIN.

THEODORE'S hand was not long in healing. At the end of a week he was able to dispense with the sling he had at first been obliged to wear, and soon only the scars where the teeth of the gin had torn the skin, remained to remind him of his accident.

Jack, although he had come off easier than his stepbrother, and had been kept up by the strength of his excitement during the time of Theodore's disappearance, and the day of his return to Blackburn Farm, was so unwell on the following morning that he was forced to remain in bed.

But after a few days' rest, Jack soon began to mend, so that by the time Theodore's hand had healed he was almost himself again, and able to join in his stepbrother's pursuits as before.

Moses Stanley and his family made a fortnight's sojourn at Naraton, encamping, by Mr. Fry's kind permission, in a field close to Blackburn Farm-house. Theodore and Jack paid several visits to the encampment during the few last days the gipsies were there.

"I shall never forget how kind you were to me," Theodore told Miriam, "and I think your caravan is the cosiest place I was ever in. Why won't you stay here a little longer?"

But Miriam shook her head smilingly, and declared they must be moving on; so one morning they took their departure early, Moses and Miriam having been generously rewarded for their kindness to Theodore, who parted from them with many protestations of goodwill and gratitude.

"Moses will never settle down as I've done," Seth Stanley informed the boys when they called in to see him after his brother had gone; "his wife loves a roving life too! I couldn't stand being pent-up in a town myself, but there's breathing room on Dartmoor! If I ever feel restless and unsettled I go for a good long walk, and come back contented."

"Father says perhaps we may come here another year," Theodore remarked after a few moments' silence; "I'm sure I hope we shall, because I like Naraton so much, and we've made so many friends here—you for one, Seth!"

"It has been very jolly at Blackburn Farm," Theodore continued, "and we all feel quite sorry to think we're going home so soon."

When the day of departure came at last, the boys were quite low-spirited at having to say goodbye to the inmates of the farm. Theodore stole away to give a parting caress to the lamb—now grown a fine sturdy animal—which had met with such careless treatment from him at the beginning of its life. The little creature followed him, bleating, to the door of the farm-house, where the carriage was waiting. Then there was Help to be patted, and a few last words to be spoken to the kindly, silent farmer, and his good-natured wife; but at last they were off. A few minutes later they were being driven around the Green, and the boys stood up in the carriage to wave their hands to Seth Stanley, who from the door of his shop was watching their departure.

But after all, it was pleasant to be at home once more, as the boys agreed the first night after their return to Afton Hall. The following morning they were up early, and out in the garden retailing their experiences to John Bawdon long before the rest of the household had arisen. The old man lent a keenly interested ear to their lively chatter; but he could not suppress an exclamation of horror when Theodore showed the scars on his hand, and explained the cause of their being there.

Then the boys had to examine their own little gardens, which John Bawdon had been empowered to keep free from weeds during their absence; and Jack, much to his delight, discovered a pink monthly rose blooming on the bush in the middle of his flower-bed, which he gathered and presented to his mother at the breakfast-table.

"I wonder if Aunt Selina and Aunt Penelope will be here to-day?" Theodore said, addressing his father. "I expect Aunt Pen will be fussing about our lessons as soon as she sees us."

"I think not," Mr. Barton replied. "I may as well tell you I mean to get a tutor for you boys, to prepare you for a public school. I have written to Aunt Penelope, and she owns she finds you rather too great a responsibility to undertake your education any longer."

There was a short silence. The boys felt a little dismay at the prospect of a tutor at first; but in a few moments Theodore's face brightened.

"Yes, we ought to be taught by a man. We're too old for a governess now. I shall soon be nine." And he fell to thinking of the watch which his father had promised him on his next birthday, and of the conversation he had had with Jack on the subject, that never-to-be-forgotten day on the moor.

Later on, when he found himself alone with his father, he seized the opportunity of speaking to him about the promised present.

"I should so like Jack to have a watch, too," he said wistfully. "Do you think you could manage it, father?"

"Because," Theodore proceeded, "I want Jack to have one the same as me, just as though we were real brothers!"

Mr. Barton looked at the bright face of his son, at the clear grey eyes that met his so fearlessly, and his heart filled with tender affection and fatherly pride.

"I will think about the matter," he said briefly; but Theodore was perfectly satisfied.

And think about it Mr. Barton did, and consult his wife as well; with the result that a few days later he called the boys into the west parlour, and presented each with a serviceable watch, saying he had decided to give them now, instead of waiting until Theodore's birthday, which was not for another three months.

Needless to say, the boys were delighted; and still more so when Mrs. Barton entered the room and gave each a pretty chain, attached to which was a lucky sixpence. They could hardly find words to express their thanks, so proud and excited were they.

"You will not have an excuse for being late at meal-times now," Mrs. Barton reminded them, as they examined their new treasures.

"No," Jack agreed, as he looked at his presents with admiring eyes. "Oh, Theo, here are my initials on the back of my watch!"

He had already opened the back of his watch, and was curiously inspecting its works.

"Be careful, Theo," Jack said warningly. "I don't think you ought to breathe into your watch,—ought he, mother?"

"No, I think not, my dear. By the way, I want to remind you boys to be in good time for tea this afternoon, because your aunts are coming."

Mrs. Barton received her guests in the west parlour, explaining that she knew they would prefer that apartment to the large drawing-room.

"We generally have tea here," she said, "because it is so sunny and pleasant at this hour of the day. Won't you take this easy chair, Miss Selina?"

"No, thank you," was the reply, as Miss Selina selected a straight-backed chair, on which she sat bolt upright, looking as gaunt and stiff as usual. "I was never accustomed to loll when I was young, and I don't mean to begin now I'm old."

Miss Penelope laughed as she accepted the seat which her sister despised. She was looking brighter and more cheerful than she generally did.

"We had a visit from the boys this morning," she told Mrs. Barton; "they came to show their watches, and to bring us some flowers from their own gardens."

"We did not fail to appreciate the kindly thoughts which evidently prompted their gifts to us," Miss Selina remarked. "How well both boys look! You know I am nothing if not outspoken, and I always speak my mind. So I must tell you how much I consider Theodore has improved. He was always a dear boy; but I can mark your influence on him—I can indeed."

"It is most evident," Miss Penelope said; and she spoke cordially, for she had long ceased to grudge Mrs. Barton her due. "We were very pleased to hear how he spoke of you," she continued earnestly; "he called you 'mother,' as though he was accustomed to do so, too."

"He always does now," Mrs. Barton responded, her face beaming with happy smiles.

"Did I not say he would one day of his own free will?" Miss Selina exclaimed heartily.

Miss Penelope flushed, for she remembered the occasion well. She recognised now how foolish and spiteful she had been, and was honestly glad that Theodore was on good terms with his stepmother. A few minutes later Mr. Barton came in, and was shortly followed by the boys.

Tea was brought in, and they were all very merry and happy together. Miss Selina asked Theodore how he had spent the afternoon, and he informed her he had been gardening with John Bawdon. To-morrow he and Jack intended going harvesting.

"Ah! you had better make the most of your freedom," Miss Penelope said, with a smile, "for your tutor will not leave much spare time on your hands."

When the visitors left, Mr. Barton accompanied them to their home, as was his custom on such occasions. Mrs. Barton and the boys repaired to the garden, where Theodore drew his stepmother's attention to the carnations which were coming into bloom. "John Bawdon says they'll be a fine show in a week's time, please God," he told her.

He did not laugh now as he repeated the old man's favourite formula, for he was learning to regard life from the point of view of those who look to their Heavenly Father to perfect their imperfect works. "See, mother, how the buds are all ready to burst. A little more sunshine and they'll be in full bloom."

"Yes," she replied in an absentminded tone. "Theo," she said suddenly, "do you remember the day I came to Afton Hall?"

"Rather! And how I hid in the lumber-room, and Jane found me, and pushed me into the west parlour where you and father were—and Jack."

"How surprised I was when I saw Jack. And afterwards, when I heard you singing to him 'At even ere the sun was set,' it made me think of my own mother, and—and—I didn't want to like you, but I liked Jack. I couldn't help it."

"Jane says you have made us all happier," Theodore said in an earnest voice, "and John Bawdon says he thinks God sent you, and I think so too. I am glad God made Jack well. It was dreadful for him when he was so ill. I can't imagine how he could have been so good and patient. Father says he has the soul of a hero, because he can bear suffering, and not complain."

"Do you remember asking me who was the greatest man that ever lived?" Mrs. Barton enquired, with a tender smile.

"Yes; and I remember all you said," Theodore answered eagerly. "I couldn't understand then, but I do now. Oh!" he cried, with a change of tone, "here are father and Jack. Jack, come round to the stables with me, and see Jigger have his supper."

The two boys went off together, whilst Mr. and Mrs. Barton remained in the garden. What their conversation was about may be judged from the following remarks:

"The aunts are simply delighted to see how Theodore has grown to love you," he said.

"I am happier than I can express," was the fervent response. "At one time I almost despaired of winning his regard; but he is a noble boy, and it has been good for Jack that they have met."

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The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Hermit's Cave

"John, what are you talking of, all by yourself?"

THE HERMIT'S CAVE

or

Theodore and Jack.

By

ELEANORA H. STOOKE,

Author of "Polly's Father," "A Little Town Mouse,"

"Rose Cottage," etc.

Illustrated by Richard Tod.

LONDON:

GALL AND INGLIS, 25 PATERNOSTER SQUARE;

AND EDINBURGH.

PRINTED AND BOUND BY

GALL AND INGLIS,

NEWINGTON PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING WORKS,

EDINBURGH.

CONTENTS

List of Illustrations.

THE HERMIT'S CAVE.

THEODORE HEARS OF HIS STEPBROTHER.