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.
"You seem very merry," she said. "I hope I have not come to disturb you?"
"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?"
"If you like," Theodore replied, a trifle ungraciously.
"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.
"When is he coming?" Jack enquired.
"To-morrow, my dear."
"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!"
"Oh, yes! but—"
"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."
"I hope not," Mrs. Barton responded seriously.
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.
"What did the London doctor say? Did he hurt you much?"
"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?"
"It's no good thinking, Theo!"
"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?"
"Oh! indeed he doesn't worry me! He never does!" Jack cried.
"You don't know anything about it!" Theodore exclaimed rudely, turning an indignant glance upon Jane; "you needn't interfere!"
"Theodore!"
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!"
Jack put his arms around her neck, and drew her face down to his.
"Tell me," he whispered.
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.
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.
On this occasion Theodore commenced the conversation by asking:
"Were you ever on Dartmoor, John?"
"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."
"Were you, indeed? I never knew that!"
"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?"
Theodore nodded; and John Bawdon proceeded:
"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."
The old man shook his head gravely.
"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?"
"Not very," Jack answered; "but I'm very tired."
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."
Mrs. Fry expressed her sympathy, and continued talking to the boys.
"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?"
"Oh, yes!" they both answered.
"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?"
"No!"
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.
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!"
"Oh, Theo, don't! Please don't!"
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!"
"I knew you would be. Are you ready to go downstairs?"
"Not quite. I haven't said my prayers."
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."
"What sort of things?" the other asked curiously.
"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."
"For me?" Theodore cried in great surprise. "What do you mean?"
"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!"
"What an odd idea!"
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!"
"I wonder if I could catch him."
"Not likely."
"I'll try."
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."
"But it is not heavy, is it?" Jack asked, appealing to Mr. Fry.
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.
"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.
"Is Mr. Fry very angry with me?" Theodore asked anxiously.
"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."
"Yes, he had; but you see I didn't know the ditch was there."
"Ah, but Mr. Fry did!"
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.
"Like me, Theo!" Jack cried, in great surprise.
"Yes. You always listen to what people tell you, and do as you're told. I don't."
"But you could if you liked."
"No," replied Theodore mournfully; "I forget."
Jack was silent for a short while; then he made a suggestion.
"Couldn't you ask God to help you to remember?" he said earnestly.
"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."
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?"
The boys nodded.
"Which of you is Mr. Barton's son?"
"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."
"Stick to their caravan!" the boys echoed in astonishment.
"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, no!" Theodore cried hastily, "you mustn't think that."
"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?"
"No," they answered, their eager faces expressing their interest in his story.
"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."
There was a short silence, which Theodore broke by asking:
"Didn't you say your brother lived in a caravan?"
"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."
Seth Stanley shook his head, laughing at the idea.
"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."
"Have you never been to the Hermit's Cave?"
"No!" Theodore replied quickly. "Where is it? What is it? Is it far?"
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?"
"Yes!" the boys responded eagerly. "Is the Hermit's Cave there?"
"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."
"What is a hermit?" Theodore questioned.
"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?"
"Yes; but do you think mother would allow us to go alone?"
"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!"
"Then will you go with me?" Theodore demanded.
"Yes, yes."
"Very well; and you promise not to mention the Hermit's Cave to any one?"
"I promise."
"That's right. You're a brick, Jack!"
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'm sure he's a good man, mother," Jack replied earnestly.
"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."
"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.
"Oh, Theo!" cried Jack softly, "isn't it lovely? What does it remind you of?"
"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.
"But doesn't the sight of the hills remind you of a verse in the Psalms?"
"No. What verse do you mean?"
"This one: I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help."
"Oh, yes! of course."
Theodore looked at his stepbrother in an absentminded manner, as though his thoughts were far away, which they actually were.
"What are you thinking about?" Jack enquired, noting the other's abstraction.
"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."
"Four miles is a long way, isn't it, Theo?"
"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."
"Are you sure?"
"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."
"No; but the gig is so roomy, don't you think—"
"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.
"Oh, about half an hour."
"Very well."
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."
"But won't Jane wonder where we are?"
"Of course she will."
"Perhaps she'll be angry."
"I daresay."
"Oh, Theo, ought we to do it, do you think?" Jack asked in a troubled tone.
"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?"
"Oh, yes, yes, Theo," the other answered quickly, "I do."
"Because if you don't want to come, say so and stay at home. Don't come and then say I made you."
"Of course I shouldn't do that. I—I want to go with you. I do really."
"Very well. We must start as soon as ever we can. Come along."
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.
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!"
The glorious voice ceased as the lark fluttered gently down to the earth.
"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."
"Oh, yes, I will," Jack returned.
"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.
"Look here," said Theodore, "we had better move on."
"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?"