"Oh, how lovely!" cried May, clasping her hands.
"She stayed by the sea once," Harold told Billy. "Mother took her to Teignmouth for a week because she'd been ill; that was two years ago, but she's never forgotten it. Now, what do you say to making a move? I'm getting so hungry that I'm sure it must be nearly dinner-time."
Dinner was being dished when the children reached the post office. Billy, who was quite at his ease with his adopted relations, enjoyed his dinner—a share of a large rabbit-pie, which was the nicest he had ever tasted, he thought. He did not talk much himself, but listened to the conversation of the others. He learnt that on Saturday afternoons Mrs. Varcoe came to "scrub up," and that Aunt Elizabeth took charge of the post office so that her husband might go gardening.
As soon as ever dinner was over Uncle John said, "Now then, boys!" and a start was made for the allotment gardens.
The allotment gardens were in a field which sloped right down to the river. Many of their owners were there on this sunny November afternoon, tidying their patches of ground against the coming winter. Several large bonfires were burning finely, and it was not long before Harold and Billy were busily engaged making a bonfire of their own. Meanwhile John Dingle was weeding the ground between his winter greens, pausing now and again to exchange a few words with other allotment holders.
"There's going to be a change in the weather before long," Billy overheard him say by-and-by to a man who was passing.
"Aye, aye!" was the answer; "the wind's changing—veering round to the west."
"Does a west wind bring rain, Uncle John?" Billy inquired.
"Very often. But there are other signs the fine weather's going to break up. See those long fleecy clouds? Mares' tails we call 'em. They mean wind—high wind. It wouldn't surprise me if there was a westerly gale before morning. Where's May?"
May had followed her father and the boys to the allotment field, but had wandered away from her father's garden. She was now seen returning with the Vicar—he often came there on Saturday afternoons, Billy afterwards learnt.
"Oh, she's with Mr. Singleton!" John Dingle exclaimed; "that's all right! I don't like her to get away to the river by herself for fear she should fall in. You haven't spoken to our Vicar yet, have you, Billy? He was in the post office this morning and spoke of you—he noticed you on Sunday."
"Yes," said Mr. Singleton, who had come up with May and heard the postmaster's last words; "and I want to make the acquaintance of my new parishioner."
He shook hands with Billy. Although he was really old his eyes looked young, the little boy noticed. Those eyes were smiling at him now in the kindliest, friendliest fashion. "So you've come to live with your grandfather," he said. "I hope you'll like the country. You're going in for gardening, I understand! Ah, you wonder how I know that! A friend of yours told me—Mr. Tom Turpin."
"Oh!" cried Billy, flushing. So the Vicar considered Mr. Tom Turpin his friend! His heart swelled with happiness at that thought.
"He came to see me to say 'good-bye,'" the Vicar continued; "dropped in for a few minutes with his father on his way to the railway-station. He's gone to-day."
"Ah, poor lad!" sighed the postmaster. "I hope God will keep him safe."
"He will," the Vicar answered; "be sure He will. We know the Lord is mindful of His own—come life, come death, they're safe."
Come life, come death, they're safe! Those words, spoken by the old man with child-like faith and conviction, sounded in Billy's ears again and again during the remainder of the day, bringing joy and consolation with them. They eased the ache there was always in his heart when he thought of his mother, the innocent victim of the cruel war, and he murmured them to himself that night, as he lay in bed in the darkness, listening to the rising wind which was beginning to moan and to sob around the house.
The postmaster had been a true prophet. The fine weather had broken up. The after-glow of summer had gone.
BILLY started up in bed uttering shriek after shriek, his forehead damp with perspiration, his limbs a tremble, his heart cold with fear. What had happened? A terrible noise had wakened him from tranquil sleep, a noise right overhead it had seemed. He had opened his eyes to find himself in pitch darkness; but now, all of a sudden, a great light almost blinded him, and, springing out of bed, he made a rush across the room for the door. As he reached it, it was opened, and Mrs. Brown, carrying a lighted candle, caught him by the arm.
"What's the matter, child?" she asked crossly. "Oh, stop that noise! Do you hear? Stop that noise, you little coward, you!"
Billy obeyed. The room was in darkness again but for the flickering light of the candle which Mrs. Brown placed on the top of a chest of drawers.
"Get back to bed!" she commanded, giving the boy a little shake, then letting him go. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself for shrieking like that just because there's a thunderstorm."
"A thunderstorm!" faltered Billy. "Oh, was it only thunder I heard? I thought—oh, that's lightning!" He crept into bed and lay down.
For a moment the room had been illuminated brilliantly. Now a series of low, crackling reports sounded right overhead.
"What did you think?" asked Mrs. Brown, when her voice could be heard.
"That—that there was an air raid," the little boy admitted.
"The Germans haven't ventured over Devonshire yet," Mrs. Brown remarked, "and maybe they never will. But if they came you'd do no good by shrieking."
"I know," Billy answered. "I couldn't help it, Granny! I couldn't, indeed! Oh!—" as another flash of lightning lit up the room. "Now we shall have thunder again!"
He was right. This time, however, it did not sound directly over the house, but further away. Mrs. Brown sat down on the edge of the bed and looked at him gravely. She had thrown on a grey flannel dressing-gown, which she now proceeded to button up.
"I'll stay with you a little while," she said, her voice sounding kinder; "if I'd known you'd have been so scared I'd have come to you before. But I thought perhaps you'd sleep on like your grandfather. He's such a heavy sleeper nothing disturbs him, yet he always wakes up sharp at six o'clock. It's been a wild night, but the thunder's passing, I think."
"Yes," agreed Billy. He listened, then went on, "But hark to the rain! It's coming down in torrents! It must have put out all the bonfires, and they were burning so beautifully. Oh, Granny, poor Jenny! How dreadful to think of her out in the orchard."
"Jenny's all right," Mrs. Brown assured him. "Your grandfather put her in her stable the last thing before he went to bed; she won't sleep out again this winter, I reckon. Why, you're trembling still, child!"
"But I'm not frightened any longer. I'm not afraid of thunder and lightning; it was only—that I didn't know—"
"Oh, yes, I understand now," Mrs. Brown broke in; "but I didn't at first. I'm sorry I didn't."
"Oh, never mind, Granny," Billy murmured. "I oughtn't to have been afraid; I shouldn't have been if I'd stopped to think—to remember God was with me and that He'd keep me safe."
"He didn't keep your mother safe!"
The little boy started up in bed.
"Yes, He did!" he cried. "He took her to be with Him for ever and ever! That's being safe, isn't it?"
Mrs. Brown was silent. She was not religious in the true sense of the word. She called herself a Christian, of course, but she had never opened her heart to the Saviour—never known that love which passeth knowledge. Indeed, she had never felt the need of that love; but now, as she looked at Billy's glowing face and shining eyes, she had a feeling that the little boy possessed something of which she was lacking.
"When I miss her—and, oh! I miss her always, every minute of the day," he continued, "it makes my heart ache less when I remember she's safe. Oh, mother!" He caught his breath with a sob.
"You mustn't grieve, child," Mrs. Brown said, with unusual gentleness; "by your own telling you know that she's better off where she's gone. I daresay she had a troublous life."
Billy nodded. "But we were very happy," he said, "just mother and me. Of course we were poor, but Grandfer helped us. He used to write such nice letters—short, but ever so kind. We used to look forward to getting his letters, not so much because of the money—"
"What money?" interposed Mrs. Brown with a start.
"The money he used to send us," the little boy explained. "Oh, didn't you know about it?"
Mrs. Brown hesitated, but only momentarily. Her face was flushed and her brows were knitted in a frown.
"No," she replied, "I did not. Perhaps your grandfather thought it no business of mine." She rose as she spoke and took her candle. "Well, I suppose I can leave you now," she remarked; "you're not likely to have a shrieking fit again."
"Oh, no, Granny! And thank you for coming to me. I—"
Billy ceased speaking abruptly, for Mrs. Brown had gone, closing the door behind her. He did not feel at all sleepy, but he closed his eyes and tried to sleep. He wished he had not spoken of the money his grandfather had given his mother. He supposed, now, that Grandfer had not wished Granny to know about it—that that was the reason why he had always been so anxious not to be thanked. Then would Granny have been against the money having been sent?
"That must be it!" Billy decided. "Oh, how mean of her! Yes, I do call it mean! She is mean."
Though he had been so short a time at Rowley Cottage, he had discovered that Mrs. Brown had but one aim and ambition in life—to make and save money. Only the day before she had shown temper because her husband had become a subscriber to some war charity.
"You can't afford it!" she had declared. "We're only working people! Don't I slave from dawn to dusk over the housework and poultry, doing without a servant to save money? And you—why, you'd give the coat off your back, I believe, if anyone asked you for it! What's going to become of us in our old age if we don't put by now? Oh, we ought to trust Providence a bit, ought we? What cant! 'Look-out for yourself' is my motto, and it will take some beating! Don't talk to me!"
William Brown had not done so, but had allowed her to rage on. Billy was thinking how sad and ashamed he had looked, when he heard raised voices in the next room. Evidently a quarrel was taking place. He sat up in bed and listened, then, unable to make out what was being said, slipped out of bed and opened the door. Only one voice was speaking now—Granny's, shrill and excited.
"You kept it a secret from me to avoid unpleasantness?" it cried. "A fine excuse! And now you won't even tell me how much you sent her! It's too bad—too bad! And I had to admit to the boy you kept me in the dark! A nice position to have put your wife in! Shame on you, William Brown!"
"The shame's on you who were always so against the boy's father!—on you who begrudged the little money I spent on bringing him up and educating him!" Billy heard his grandfather retort. "You were never fair to my son—your own daughter knows it!"
Billy shut the door heavily and went back to bed. He had suddenly remembered that he ought not to be listening. Oh, how he wished he had not mentioned his grandfather's secret! But he had not known it was a secret till Mrs. Brown's flushed face and frowning brows had enlightened him.
The lightning was coming in only occasional flashes now, and the thunder had nearly stopped. By-and-by the angry voices in the next room ceased. Still Billy could not sleep. Though no longer frightened he could not quiet his nerves; he felt them throbbing all over him, even to his finger-tips. At last came dawn—a wintry dawn, chill and mournful, and it was time to rise.
The little boy was nearly dressed when Mrs. Brown, looking much as usual, opened the door and popped her head in.
"Oh, you're getting up!" she said. "Your grandfather's been out this long while, and'll be in to breakfast soon. Hurry! I want you to feed the fowls, and—but how white you look! Didn't you sleep again?"
"No," Billy admitted, "I couldn't—I was too unhappy. Oh, Granny, I heard you and Grandfer quarrelling," and his voice choked. "My head's dizzy," he faltered; "I feel—"
The room seemed to be swimming about him. He saw everything through a mist. The mist thickened and closed in around him, and had not Mrs. Brown rushed into the room and caught him as he staggered, he would have fallen, unconscious, upon the floor.
FOR several days Billy was ill, so ill that he kept his bed, and the doctor who attended him insisted he should have a night nurse. Accordingly Mrs. Varcoe was engaged to fill that position.
"Such an expense!" Billy overheard Mrs. Brown grumbling to her daughter, who came to Rowley Cottage, greatly concerned, as soon as she heard of his illness. "The doctor says he's still suffering from shock to some extent, and his nerves are unstrung. I never bargained he would be as delicate as this."
"Oh, I expect he'll be all right after a bit," was the hasty response. "I can understand how the thunderstorm upset him. Of course, you can't work by day and nurse by night, mother; you've done wisely in getting Mrs. Varcoe."
At first Billy was rather in awe of Mrs. Varcoe. He felt as though a giantess had taken possession of him. But he soon discovered that the giantess, in spite of her big, work-roughened hands, had the gentlest touch possible, and that her shrewd green eyes often had a very tender mother-look in them.
She was a silent watcher at his bedside as a rule, but one night, when Billy was too feverish and restless to sleep, she proved that she could be a good talker. He questioned her about her sons, and she told him a great deal that interested him concerning them, and spoke of a letter she had received after the eldest had been killed.
"It was from his captain," she explained; "just a few words, saying my boy had been a good soldier and had done his duty. I ought to be a proud mother, he said. And I am!"
Billy was deeply moved.
"Oh, Mrs. Varcoe, how brave you are!" he exclaimed.
He felt there was a link between him and Mrs. Varcoe, for both of them had suffered through the war. He began to talk to her of his mother, and that led to tears. She did not try to stop him, as Granny would have done, when he began to weep. No! she put her strong arms around him, and hushed him upon her breast. There, by-and-by, he fell asleep.
During the days he was in bed Billy was kept very quiet, but directly he came downstairs again he was allowed to see visitors. The Vicar was the first who called to see him; then each of the members of the Dingle family came at different times, delighted that he was about again. After that little May came every afternoon, and sat beside him on the settle, talking to him about the animals and birds she noticed on her daily journey from the village to Rowley Cottage.
"Get well quickly, Billy," she would say, "then I'll take you to the woods to see the squirrels. Oh, they are the dearest, sweetest things! You'll love them, you will!"
A wonderfully happy time followed. After the heavy rains a spell of dry, clear weather set in. Every day now found Billy either in the garden with his grandfather or roaming about the woods and lanes with May. He never tired of watching the squirrels springing from tree to tree, and he soon grew accustomed to the sounds which at first startled him—the rustle of birds and the scuttle of rabbits in the undergrowth, the discordant cries of cock-pheasants as they rose from the ground and took wing, and the mournful hoot of the owls.
Once, on a misty day, he saw an owl quite close. It was white, save for a few light golden-brown feathers in its wings, and had a round, solemn, baby face.
Then he learnt to ride Jenny, and to drive her in the market cart, too. One never-to-be-forgotten day he drove his grandfather nearly to Exeter. As they neared the city they began to meet other vehicles, and his grandfather changed seats with him and took the reins. He was rather glad of this, not as yet being an experienced driver.
The first stop they made when Exeter was reached was before a large fruit and poultry shop in High Street. Here William Brown unloaded the contents of his cart—a quantity of winter greens and potatoes, and two baskets, one containing dead poultry, the other some golden apples called "Blenheim Oranges," the crop of one of his best apple-trees which had been gathered carefully before the gales, and hoarded. Then they drove to various other shops and did a lot of shopping, for Mrs. Brown had given them a long list of errands to execute; and, later, their purchases having been stored away in the market cart, they drove down a narrow side-street into a yard, where they left Jenny and her load in the care of a stable boy who seemed to know her and smacked her fat sides familiarly.
"Nov for the market!" said William Brown. He dived his hand into his trouser-pocket, and the next minute slipped half-a-crown into his grandson's palm. "A trifle for pocket-money," he explained, with his good-natured smile.
"Oh, grandfather, thank you, thank you!" cried Billy.
He had never had a half-crown in his life before.
"May I do what I like with it?" he asked eagerly, his eyes sparkling.
"Certainly," agreed his grandfather. "Spend it, or, if you like, you can open an account with it in the Post Office Savings Bank."
"I think I'd like to spend it, grandfather." The market reached, William Brown met several acquaintances who claimed his attention. He suggested that Billy should go and look at the shops and come back to him, adding that he would be there for an hour at least. Billy jumped at the suggestion, for he wanted to spend his half-crown. He thought he would buy himself a pocket-knife. It would be such a useful thing to have.
He wandered from shop to shop, gazing into the windows. At last he came to one in which were all sorts of fancy articles.
"I should think they'd sell pocket-knives here," he thought. "I'll ask, anyway."
There were several customers in the shop when he entered it, so the little boy had to wait a few minutes before he could be attended to. He passed the time in looking at some picture books on the counter. One, in particular, excited his admiration. It contained coloured prints of all sorts of birds, wild and tame. "How May would like that!" he thought. "I'll buy it for her!—that is, if it is not too expensive." Turning to an assistant who had come to him, he inquired: "What is the price of this picture book, please?"
"Two shillings," was the reply.
"Oh!" exclaimed Billy. "I can't afford that." He had hoped it might not be more than a shilling. If he bought it he would have only sixpence left. "What are the prices of your pocket-knives?" he asked.
"We have none less than eighteen-pence," he was told.
He stood undecided, thinking. May knew nothing about the book, and he wanted a pocket-knife so much. Harold had one, and it was most useful. But the book would be a great joy to May. Oh, she must have it!
When he returned to the market to his grandfather the bird picture book was in his possession.
"Spent all your money?" William Brown inquired, smiling.
Billy shook his head.
"No," he replied. "I've sixpence left that I'm going to save towards buying a pocket-knife."
He did not tell his grandfather then what he had purchased, but on the way home, some hours later, he told him.
"It's all pictures of birds," he explained. "I'm sure May'll be pleased with it."
"Aye, I reckon!" William Brown nodded. He had refused to allow Billy to drive on the homeward journey, saying that it would be dark very soon. But Billy was not nervous to-day, as he had been during his first drive from Exeter. He knew now how sure-footed Jenny was, and that his grandfather was a careful driver. By-and-by his grandfather began to talk of the plans his Exeter acquaintances were making for growing big crops of vegetables and corn next year.
"Every one's as keen as pepper to get as much as possible out of the land," he said. "We men at home mean to show our fighting men we can do our bit as well as they can. And may God prosper our labours! After all's said and done, we can't do anything without Him! The harvest's in His hands, you know, Billy! Ah! those who work on the land need to put a deal of faith in th' Almighty."
They had nearly reached home now. A few minutes later Jenny was picking her way down the cart track at the back of the house, her master at her head. Then she drew up with a satisfied snort before the back door. Billy jumped out, and ran into the kitchen, his purchase under his arm. He had hoped to see May. But she was not there. Having known he would be absent she had not been near Rowley Cottage for the day. No one was there but Mrs. Brown.
"Oh, Granny!" cried the little boy, "look here! Grandfer gave me half-a-crown, and I bought this."
He pulled off the paper from the picture book, which he put into her hands, never doubting but that she would admire it. She glanced at it with a darkening face.
"A baby's book!" she exclaimed scornfully. "The idea of a boy your age wasting money on such a book as this! Your grandfather should have known better than to let you!"
"I bought it for May," faltered Billy. "It all pictures—pictures of birds. She loves birds, so I thought she'd be pleased—"
"Oh, it's for May, is it?" Mrs. Brown broke in, with a sudden change of tone. "That alters the case. She'll be pleased, of course, and—and it was good of you to remember the poor child, Billy."
She had never spoken to Billy so cordially before.
THE bird picture book proved indeed a great joy to May, as Billy had thought it would, and many were the hours she spent poring over it during the long winter days when bad weather kept her indoors. She was quick to learn the names of the pictured birds she did not already know by sight, and eager to find out all about them. The Vicar could give her more information than anyone else. All she learnt from him she repeated to Billy.
After Christmas Billy attended the village school. He was in better health now, and far less nervous in every way. The distressing dreams which had haunted his sleep for so many weeks disturbed him no longer. "'Thou shalt not be afraid of the terror by night,'" he reminded himself if he awoke in the darkness; whilst morning and evening he prayed Tom Turpin's prayer, "'Be not Thou far from me, O Lord,'" and felt it was answered.
It was a dragging winter, and a cold spring. With the lengthening days came a spell of severe frost which lasted for weeks, when no work could be done on the land. Mrs. Brown fussed because her husband was obliged to be idle, but he was not in the least disturbed.
"It'll be all right, Maria," he assured her cheerfully. "By-and-by spring will come with a rush."
Such was indeed the case. Within one week there was a great transformation scene. The wind changed from north-east to south-west, a gentle rain fell on the frost-dried earth; then the rain ceased, sunshine came, and the soft stir of awakening life.
There was plenty of work to be done out-of-doors now. William Brown had the assistance of a couple of old men from the village, and with them he laboured from dawn till dark. On Saturdays Billy worked in the garden too. He helped his grandfather prepare the beds for the small seeds, making the earth as fine as possible, and learnt the different depths the various seeds had to be sown, and not to sow them too thickly.
"You'll make a rare good gardener one of these days," his grandfather told him approvingly; "your heart's in the work, I see."
At last all the seeds were in the ground. The garden at Rowley Cottage, with its trim, smooth beds, was a picture of neatness. The gardens in the allotment field were in a like condition. And now there was a lull in the gardening.
Billy thought the seeds were slow in growing, but his grandfather assured him that they were doing all right.
"But how can you tell, Grandfer?" the little boy inquired. "You can't see them."
"No, Billy," William Brown answered; "I can't see them, but I've faith as to what's going on underground. I've seen too many springtimes to doubt that."
"And what's going on underground, Grandfer?" asked Billy.
"Why," his grandfather said gravely, "a miracle—the miracle of the resurrection. It's too wonderful for us to understand. We don't see the stir of life in the spring, but we see the effect of it in everything—in the budding trees, the flowers, the fresh green grass. It's God's life-giving spirit wakening the world from its winter sleep. We must have patience. We sowed good seeds; bought them from a reliable firm, and they're all right."
And all right they were. One morning William Brown announced, at breakfast, that the turnips and parsnips were showing above the ground. Before going to school Billy had a look at them. What tiny plants they were! After that, other vegetables, such as carrots, beets, and onions, were not long in appearing, and, once above ground, they grew apace.
One afternoon Billy arrived home to tea, carefully carrying a small pot containing a marrow plant, a gift from the postmaster. After tea, under the directions of his grandfather, he tilled the marrow plant out.
"Uncle John has given Harold one, too, Grandfer," he said; "so we're going to see which of us can grow the biggest marrow. The plants are as alike as two plants can possibly be."
"John Dingle took the prize for marrows at the vegetable show last year," William Brown remarked.
"Yes, he told me," Billy answered, adding; "He says he should like one of us boys to win the prize this year. We both mean to try."
Accordingly he gave his plant every care and attention, shielding it from the too fierce rays of the sun before it had properly rooted, and watering it regularly. He was delighted with the quickness of its growth. When it came into flower his grandfather advised him which flowers to take off and which to let remain. He often called at the post office to tell John Dingle how well the plant was doing. On one of these occasions, hearing that May and Harold had gone to the allotment field, he followed them there.
Harold was weeding in his father's garden when Billy arrived at the allotment field Billy examined his marrow plant, which seemed in just the same flourishing condition as his own, and then went in search of May, who had wandered off to the river. He found her on the river's bank. She turned a bright, happy face to him as he approached, and, with her finger on her lip, whispered—
"Hush! There's a dip-chick's nest! I'm watching the baby dip-chicks!"
She pointed to a clump of grasses growing beneath the overhanging bank opposite. Close by three baby dip-chicks were disporting themselves in the water, whilst their mother swam around them, keeping guard.
"Aren't they sweet little things?" whispered May. "Oh, look, there's their father! What a hurry he's in!"
Sure enough there he was, running along the bank towards his family. Suddenly he dived off into the river. There was a great flutter for a moment or two, then father, mother, and baby dip-chicks had all disappeared under the overhanging bank.
"They saw us," said May regretfully. "Now they'll hide till we're gone."
"Better come away from the water," advised Billy; "you might fall in."
"Oh, I'm ever so careful!" the little girl assured him. "I do love the river; don't you? And it's so happy to-day! Listen how it laughs and sings! That's because it's fine weather and the sun shines. Back in the winter it was different—so dark and deep. Billy, it must be very wise, mustn't it? for it's come such a long, long way, from up in the Dartmoor hills. It's going right on to the sea. Mr. Singleton told me. He comes here sometimes, and we listen to the river together. Oh, look, look! What's that? There, up in the sky! And what a funny noise, Billy!"
Billy's eyes followed the direction of the little girl's pointing finger, and saw an aeroplane coming towards them, high in the sky. It looked like a great bird in the distance, but he recognised it as an aeroplane at a glance, for he had frequently seen them pass over London. Though he knew there was little likelihood of this one being an enemy, his heart throbbed fast at the sight of it. He explained to May what it was; then Harold rushed up to them in a great state of excitement.
"An aeroplane! An aeroplane!" he cried. "The first I've seen! Oh, I hope father and mother and every one in the village will see it, too! The men say it's most likely going to Plymouth."
He referred to several allotment holders who had been busy in their gardens a few minutes before; they were now standing with heads thrown back watching the strange sight. Nearer and nearer it came, then passed right over the gardens.
"It's a biplane," said Billy, rather proud of his knowledge. "I've seen several like it before. How fast it's going! And can't we hear its engines working plainly! That's the funny noise you spoke of, May. Buzz-z-z-z!"
May drew a deep sigh. She was watching the aeroplane with breathless interest, her colour coming and going fitfully. It was momentarily growing more and more like a bird as it sailed away. When at last it was lost to view the children left the allotment field and hurried back to the village. Every one had been out to watch. The aeroplane was the talk of the place, and indeed of the neighbourhood, for days.
"I'M come to tea, mother," announced Mrs. Dingle, one hot August afternoon, as she entered the kitchen at Rowley Cottage, where Mrs. Brown stood ironing at a table near the open window. "I shan't be in your way, shall I? Here, you rest a bit, and let me take on your irons."
"No, thank you," Mrs. Brown answered. "You were never a good hand at ironing starchery, Elizabeth, and I can't bear to see it done badly. I'm doing Billy's collars—such a lot there are! This hot weather a collar rarely lasts him more than a day."
"I suppose he makes a lot of extra work for you," remarked Mrs. Dingle, seating herself and taking off her hat.
"You suppose?" said her mother tartly. "As if you didn't know, when you've a boy of your own! By the way, I believe May and Harold are about here somewhere."
"They're in the garden—I've been there. They're helping net the plum-trees. Billy's a born gardener, his grandfather says."
Mrs. Brown nodded.
"To give him his due, he's been a great help during the fruit-picking," she allowed. "All his spare time out of school hours during the summer he's spent in the garden, and now it's holidays he's there from morning till night. Did he show you his marrow—the one he is going to cut for the show?"
"Yes. It's a beauty. Harold has one quite as large, though."
There was a brief silence, then Mrs. Dingle said—
"Mother, have you noticed any alteration in May lately? No? Oh, I have, and her father too! She's far less dreamy and more interested in things in general than she used to be. The other day we were surprised to find she's really beginning to learn to read."
"No!" exclaimed Mrs. Brown incredulously.
"Yes, mother; yes, indeed! It seems it was Billy who taught her her letters. Don't you remember how much time she spent with him after his illness?"
"Of course! But I never paid much attention to them—they used to sit on the settle by the fire, looking at the pictures in some story books he has and talking in whispers. And he taught her then? Yes? Well, I never!"
"She can read short words now," Mrs. Dingle said, with a tremble of joyfulness in her voice. "Fancy! Oh, I think it's marvellous—marvellous! It's been such a trouble to John and me that our little maid should be so different from others."
"I always said she was only backward!" cried Mrs. Brown triumphantly.
Mrs. Dingle nodded.
"Mr. Singleton says if you can interest her in anything she can learn all about it quicker than most children," she said eagerly; "but if you can't it's impossible to teach her or to chain her attention. She got interested in Billy's books because there are such wonderful stories in them, and that made her want to learn to read. Then Billy began to teach her—he says it wasn't so very difficult; but I don't think he quite realises what a great matter it is—that it shows our darling's intellect is less clouded than we thought. Oh, mother, I don't feel now that I shall fear for the child any more! Her school-teacher's most hopeful about her, and I—oh, I'm grateful to God from the bottom of my heart!"
Mrs. Brown changed her iron for a hotter one, and went on ironing silently.
"I feel we owe a great deal to Billy," Mrs. Dingle proceeded, "because he's been so good to May. From the first she took to him. He's always been patient with her and never laughed at her quaint ways. Harold's always saying, 'Don't talk so silly, May!'—not that he means to be unkind, but because he gets impatient with her. Oh, I see Billy's companionship has been a great thing for May! John sees it too. And you do, don't you, mother?"
Mrs. Brown nodded.
"I'm not sorry now we had to have him here," she admitted, then added: "As boys go, he's better than most; and I'll say this for him, he never answers me back."
"He's a dear boy!" declared Mrs. Dingle. "I often think how his poor mother must have loved him. Ah, here is May!"
The little girl was looking in at the window.
"The boys want to know if it's nearly teatime," she said.
"Yes," replied her grandmother; "by the time they've been in and washed their hands tea will be ready."
May disappeared, returning ten minutes later with her grandfather and the boys. Mrs. Brown had cleared away her ironing things and was putting the last touches to the tea-table whilst she kept an eye on her daughter, who was measuring the tea into the tea-pot.
"That will do, Elizabeth," she said.
"All right, mother," Mrs. Dingle answered; "I haven't put one more spoonful than you told me to."
"Elizabeth's a capital tea-maker," William Brown remarked, smiling; "she could always put more tea in a spoon without over-filling it than anyone I ever knew."
At that everyone laughed, even Mrs. Brown. So the meal began merrily and went on in the same happy way.
The conversation was mostly about the flower, fruit, and vegetable show which was to be held in the Vicarage grounds that day week. There was to be a prize for the prettiest bunch of wild flowers, for which May intended to compete. Billy said he would help her gather the flowers, but she shook her head.
"No one must help me," she said, "or it wouldn't be fair."
"Our marrows will grow a lot more in a week," remarked Billy. "I do hope one of us will get the prize, Harold."
"You mean you hope you will get it," laughed Harold.
"I meant what I said," Billy replied. "Grandfer says your marrow is a better shape than mine," he continued, "and that will be taken into consideration. I went around and looked at all the marrows in the allotment gardens yesterday, and there wasn't one to beat yours, though I did see one that came near doing it."
"Yes, I know," Harold answered; "it belongs to a man called Gibbs."
"Is that the Gibbs who was had up for poaching last winter?" inquired Mrs. Brown. "Yes. I should have thought he was too idle to have a garden."
"He doesn't keep it in good condition," Harold explained; "it's generally full of weeds; but, somehow, he's managed to grow good marrows this year, and he's mighty proud of them."
Shortly after tea Mrs. Dingle went home, accompanied by her children and Billy.
William Brown was expecting a business letter from Exeter, and, as there was no second postal delivery at Ashleigh during the day, and feeling sure the letter would be at the post office, he had asked Billy to fetch it. The Exeter letter was there, and one, bearing a London postmark, also addressed to "Mr. William Brown." Billy took the two letters straight back to Rowley Cottage, and gave them to his grandfather in the garden.
William Brown read the letter he had expected first, then opened the other, and glanced through it quickly. It seemed to be of a startling nature, for he turned very red and uttered an exclamation of amazement. Then he read the letter a second time, very slowly and carefully, his face exceedingly grave. After that he thought a while.
"Why, Billy," he said at length, "you never told me your mother had an uncle in Scotland."
"I didn't know she had," Billy answered; "that is, I remember her telling me she had an uncle, but she'd lost sight of him and didn't know if he was living or dead. I think she said he was a sea captain."
"Exactly. This letter is from the master of the Institution where you stopped in London. He'd had a letter from a Captain Foster, who says he's your mother's uncle. Captain Foster, who has left the sea and is now living in Glasgow, has only lately learnt of your mother's sad death, and he and his wife, who are a childless couple, are willing to give you a home and do the best they can for you. It's a good offer, Billy, but—well, I don't want to part with you, my boy."
"And I don't want to leave you, Grandfer!" cried Billy. "I—I—oh, it's not to be thought of, is it?"
"I don't know," William Brown said doubtfully; "maybe this Captain Foster can do more for you than I can. Dear me, this is most upsetting! I think I'd better go in and tell Maria, and hear what she has to say."
Left alone, the little boy perched himself on the edge of a wheel-barrow to consider the situation. Would he, indeed, be called upon to leave the home he had learnt to love? The thought that he might be wrung his heart.
"If it rests with Granny I shall have to go," he told himself sadly; "she will be only too glad to get rid of me—she never wanted me here."
His eyes filled with tears as he looked around the garden. How he loved it! What happy days he had spent here with Grandfer and May! He had been looking forward to many more such happy days, but now, perhaps, he would be sent far away. Suddenly he jumped off the wheel-barrow, and hurried towards the house. He would not be kept in suspense; he would find out what was to become of him at once.
Arrived at the back door Billy stopped, his heart sinking despairingly. From the kitchen came the sound of Mrs. Brown's voice, loud and indignant.
"Oh, dear, she's in a temper," thought the little boy. "Perhaps I'd better keep out of her sight."
But he was so anxious that he could not help lingering to listen. Then he had a most wonderful surprise.
"Nonsense!" he heard Mrs. Brown exclaim, "Perfect nonsense! What can he do for Billy more than we can? There's nothing for you to be so upset about that I can see! Write to the man yourself and tell him 'No!' You've the first claim on the boy, for you're his grandfather. There's no reason why we should give him up to any relation of his mother's now."
Billy's heart gave a bound of joy. Then Granny was against sending him away! It was amazing, but true. He rushed into the kitchen, his eyes a-sparkle, his face aglow with delight. Mrs. Brown appealed to him immediately.
"You don't want to leave us, child, do you?" she asked.
"No!" Billy cried; "No, no, no! I—I, oh, the thought of it was dreadful!"
"It was," William Brown agreed. "I was only putting it to you, Maria, that this Captain Foster might be able to do more for Billy than I can, and—"
"And I tell you I don't believe it!" interrupted his wife. "Billy's cut out for a gardener, and he's in his right place. I daresay this Captain Foster would want to send him to sea. You write and tell him we can't give the boy up."
"Oh, Granny!" cried Billy. He made a rush at Mrs. Brown, and, clasping her around the neck, kissed her. "I thought you'd be pleased to be rid of me," he said, "but you really want me to stay. Oh, I am glad—I am glad!"
Mrs. Brown gave a rather embarrassed laugh. She made no answer, but her face softened, and her eyes were a little dim as she returned the little boy's kiss.
"Now I know what to do," William Brown remarked, adding: "We shall all sleep the better for having decided this matter to-night."
WILLIAM BROWN wrote to Captain Foster that same night, and the first thing after breakfast the following morning Billy hastened to the village and posted the letter. Then he went into the post office, where he found Mr. and Mrs. Dingle in earnest conversation, both looking unusually grave.
"Oh, Billy," the latter began, "poor Harold's in trouble. He went to look at his marrow before breakfast and found it gone."
"Do you mean it has been stolen?" gasped Billy, aghast.
"Yes," she assented, "stolen! Oh, it's really too bad! We've told the policeman what's happened, but it's most improbable he'll be able to find the thief. The marrow must have been taken during the night."
"Yes," agreed John Dingle, "for it was all right last evening—I saw it myself after dusk."
"Oh, poor Harold!" cried Billy. "Where is he?" he asked.
"Out with May somewhere," replied Mrs. Dingle. "He's dreadfully upset about this. But what brings you to the village so early, my dear?"
Billy explained. When he had finished his tale Mrs. Dingle looked at her husband meaningly, and said—
"There! Now what did I say, John? Didn't I tell you mother was growing fond of Billy?"
"Yes, you certainly did," he answered, "and this proves you were right. You're glad to remain at Rowley Cottage, Billy?"
"Oh, Uncle John, I don't know what I should have felt if Granny had said I must go! Of course I knew Grandfer wouldn't want me to go, but I was so afraid Granny would. You can't imagine how glad I was to hear she didn't like the idea of my going! She was quite upset about it. I am so glad, so glad!"
After a little further conversation Billy left to return home. He had not gone far from the village when he heard, someone shouting, and, looking back, saw Harold running after him. He stopped immediately.
"Father said I should overtake you it I ran," Harold said, as he came up. "May and I came home just after you'd left—we'd been to the allotment field again, looking everywhere for my marrow, but of course we couldn't find a trace of it. You've heard what's happened?"
Billy nodded.
"I'm so sorry," he said simply, his voice full of sympathy; "it's a great shame!"
"I'd give a great deal to know for certain who's had it!" Harold cried fiercely. "I suspect that fellow Gibbs, and I believe father does too, though he doesn't like to say so. Gibbs believes his marrow will be the best exhibited at the show now, but he'll be mistaken! He doesn't know about yours, and we must take care he doesn't!"
"If mine gets the prize we'll divide the money," said Billy. "Five shillings it'll be, won't it?"
"Yes, but—oh, do you really mean it?"
"Of course I do! Half-a-crown each will be worth having, won't it?"
"Worth having? I should think so! But—but it wouldn't be fair to you if I took half your prize money."
"Oh, yes, it would be, because I should wish it."
The boys were walking on side by side now. There was a brief silence, then Harold suddenly exclaimed—
"You're a real brick, Billy. I've always been nasty to you about your gardening tools, and begrudged your having them—you must have seen it, yet you lent me your hand-fork when I broke mine, and—oh, it's been too mean of me! I'm sure if someone had stolen your marrow and I thought I was going to get the prize I shouldn't offer to divide it with you—at least, I don't think I should—"
"Oh, I expect you would!" Billy broke in. "Anyway, if I win the prize we go shares, mind! That's agreed."
The fields on the slope of the hill behind Rowley Cottage were now golden with corn as tall as the boys themselves, and ripening fast under the kisses of the hot August sun. The boys raced down the narrow foot-track behind each other, through the orchard, and into the garden. There they found William Brown whistling light-heartedly as he weeded his asparagus bed. He heard of the loss Harold had had with much concern.
"I can't tell you how sorry I am, Harold," he said; "it's a great disappointment for you. We must watch that Billy's marrow doesn't go in the same way."
"Yes," agreed both boys eagerly, "that we must!"
But Billy's marrow was undisturbed. It continued to grow and ripen till the morning of the show, when Grandfer cut it and the boys conveyed it between them to the large tent which had been erected on the Vicarage lawn, under which most of the exhibits of flowers, fruit, and vegetables were already on the stalls.
Billy's marrow was put on a stall with a lot of others. The boys had the satisfaction of seeing, at a glance, that it was the best marrow there, for shape, colour, and size. An ill-kept, sullen-looking man who was standing near saw this, too. He shot a scowling look from one boy to the other, and moved away.
"That's Gibbs!" Harold whispered to Billy excitedly. "He's brought his marrow, but it's smaller than yours. I thought it was, but I couldn't be sure till I saw them together. Doesn't he look sold—and guilty?"
"Hush!" admonished Billy, "Someone may hear you. If we're right in what we think we can't prove it, you know."
Gibbs had slunk out of the tent and disappeared. He did not return when the exhibits were being judged, nor did he come near the show again. Apparently his whole interest in it had gone.
The show opened at two o'clock. It was well attended, nearly every one in the parish being present. Mrs. Brown, who seldom left home, was there under the escort of her husband and Billy. She was in high good humour, for Billy's marrow had won the prize; and when she came to the stall on which the wild flowers were being exhibited, there, in the centre, was a beautiful bouquet bearing a card on which was written: "First Prize—May Dingle." She felt, as she said, quite proud to be connected with two prize-winners.
The prizes were distributed by the Vicar. Next day all the vegetable exhibits, by agreement of the exhibitors, were packed carefully and sent off as a gift to the Fleet, whilst the flowers were returned to their owners. May gave her bouquet to her grandmother, and for several days it graced the round table in the middle of the parlour at Rowley Cottage.
Corn harvest was now commencing. Billy took great interest in Farmer Turpin's "reaper and binder," which he thought the most marvellous piece of machinery there could possibly be. One day it arrived to cut the corn in the fields near Rowley Cottage, and he spent hours in watching it as it worked, gathering the corn into a sheaf and cutting the stalks and tying them, then throwing the sheaf out on the ground, and going through the same programme continuously as it went on. Billy followed it till he was tired, then sat down on a big stone near the gateway leading into the road, and watched it from there.
So closely did it chain his attention that he failed to notice a khaki-clad figure coming towards him, and started up in joyful surprise when a well-remembered voice cried—
"Well met!"
The next instant he was shaking hands with Tom Turpin, back on leave from France again.
"Is there room for two on that stone?" asked the young soldier, and, Billy assenting eagerly, they sat down together. "I arrived home the day before yesterday," he continued, his blue eyes looking lovingly across the valley to Mount Farm on the opposite hill. "I can tell you it's good to be home, my boy! How beautiful everything is! 'The pastures are clothed with flocks; the valleys also are covered with corn; they shout for joy, they also sing.' This is a blessed land, Billy. Where I have come from there will be no harvest—all is desolation and ruin. Here there is plenty, and oh, the peacefulness of it all!"
There was a note of sadness in Tom's voice, whilst his eyes had a wistful expression in them. For a minute his face was clouded, then it cleared, and he went on—
"Father's behind, talking to your grandfather, but he'll join me presently. Meanwhile, tell me about yourself. I've heard of the great marrow you grew. I wish I'd been home in time to see it. I've just come from your grandfather's garden. It's a picture worth looking at. Your grandfather always grew good vegetables, but this year they're just splendid."
"I helped plant some of them," said Billy proudly.
"So I've heard," smiled Tom Turpin; "your grandfather says you've done a lot of real hard work."
"Thanks to your tools!" exclaimed Billy. "I couldn't have done half so much without them. I've taken great care of them, Mr. Turpin; they are as bright as bright!"
Tom Turpin looked pleased.
"You seem remarkably 'fit,' Billy," he said; "you're rather different now from the timid little chap I remember. You've grown a couple of inches, I should say, and your face is almost as brown as mine. You look happy, too."
"I am happy," Billy said earnestly. "When mother was killed I never thought I should be happy again; but, oh, I am! And things which used to frighten me don't frighten me any longer now. I pray your prayer, 'Be not Thou far from me, O Lord,' and that helps me to be brave—you understand."
"I do understand, my boy."
"I love being here," Billy continued; "I love the hills, and the river, and the woods, and, most of all, I love Grandfer's garden. It was so wonderful in the spring to see everything coming to life. You see I was never in the country, in the spring, before this year. I suppose that's why I thought it so wonderful. Everything—the river, the woods, the grasses in the fields, seemed to be whispering—always saying the same!"
"What was that?" Tom Turpin asked. "Is it a secret?"
"Oh, no!" Billy answered. "I'll tell you. I told little May, and she said she could hear it, too. It was 'The gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ, our Lord.' Just that, over and over again."
THE END.
LONDON: PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN
BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED.