"Yes; father said he'd give me one on my next birthday. I should not be surprised if he gave you one too."
"Oh, do you think he will?" Jack asked, flushing with delight at the idea. "But no," he added, his face falling, "that is not likely."
"Why not? Why shouldn't you have one as well as me?" Theodore enquired in surprise. "You would like a watch of your own, wouldn't you?"
"Yes; but you and I are different. You are father's real son, Theo, and I'm not."
"Oh, is that what you mean? Why, father thinks a lot of you, Jack; he's awfully fond of you! And we're just like real brothers, aren't we?"
"Oh, yes," Jack replied, smiling contentedly.
"I want you always to have the same as me," Theodore continued, earnestly. "I shall tell father so; he will understand. I shouldn't care for a watch unless you had one, too."
Theodore spoke truly, for never since he had first met his stepbrother had he experienced the least jealousy on his account. It had been so impossible to be jealous of the little lame invalid, who had appealed to the pity and generosity of his chivalrous heart; and by the time Jack had made a recovery, the two boys had become deeply and sincerely attached to each other, and nothing had occurred to interfere with their mutual love.
Theodore rarely spoke much of Mrs. Barton to Jack, but Jack was fully aware that his stepbrother felt a sense of restraint in his mother's presence, and was never quite the same happy, careless boy when she was near. This surprised, as well as grieved him, but he had never mentioned the subject to Theodore, dimly realising that he was powerless to improve matters. Jack loved his mother dearly, and he could not understand why Theodore should not too.
"We must really get on," Theodore said at length, after they had rested themselves for a considerable time, idly watching a few shaggy-maned ponies at a little distance, too timid to come near the intruders.
So the boys rose, and proceeded on their way, which became rougher and steeper the higher they climbed. They had sometimes to go on their hands and knees, and Theodore laughed merrily, wondering what Jane would say could she see them.
It was fine fun though! They thoroughly enjoyed the difficulties to be overcome, for it was easy to imagine themselves explorers in a foreign country. After leaving Mr. Fry in the farmyard they had not met a living soul, or passed a human habitation, though they had occasionally caught a glimpse of a lonely cottage or farm-house on the slope of a distant hill.
The top of the Tor was reached at last, and both boys flung themselves on the hard ground to regain their breath. Jack was looking utterly done up, and he held his hand to his side.
"What's the matter?" Theodore asked, with a slight feeling of alarm. "You are not ill, are you, old fellow?"
"No, Theo; I've got a stitch in my side though."
"Oh, that will soon pass. That's nothing. Keep still, and you'll be all right in a few minutes."
Jack took his stepbrother's advice. Very soon he felt better, but he still looked pale. "My legs shake so," he explained in an apologetic tone. "What a long way we have come. Aren't you tired?"
"Not in the least. Don't you think you had better stay here and rest whilst I go and find the Hermit's Cave?" Theodore suggested.
"Oh, no, no! I want to go with you. Don't leave me here. I'm all right now."
"Let me see. Seth Stanley said the cave was on the north side of the Tor," Theodore said reflectively; "now, which side is that, I wonder?"
"I'm sure I don't know. The sun sets in the west; we ought to be able to tell by that."
"But the sun is not setting yet. Still, the cave can't be on the sunny side. That's certain. Let us try this way."
They set to work, searching amongst the boulders of granite, but it was a long time before they could find any aperture which looked like the entrance to a cave. At last, when they feared their quest was in vain, and were almost in despair, Theodore gave an exultant cry. He had discovered a hole between two blocks of granite, and called to Jack to come and look.
"Yes, this must be it," Jack said, excitedly, "but I can't see anything inside, Theo. Do you mean to go in?"
"Of course I do."
Theodore proceeded to pull an end of candle, about two inches in length, and the box of wax matches he had purloined from Jane's dressing-table, from the depths of his trousers' pockets.
"There!" he cried, triumphantly, as he struck a light and lit the candle, which had become rather soft and bent.
"You think of everything, Theo," Jack exclaimed, admiringly. "Shall we have to get into the cave through that hole? It's not big enough."
"Oh, yes, it is; only we must crawl in. I'll go first, and you follow. You aren't afraid, are you?"
"Oh, no!"
Theodore went down on his knees, and holding the lighted candle in one hand, and feeling his way with the other, he disappeared through the opening. A minute later Jack heard him utter an exclamation of vexation and dismay; but he was reassured by the sound of his stepbrother's voice saying:
"The candle's gone out; I'll light it again! Wait a minute, Jack. There's plenty of room in here. Now then, come along."
With some misgivings Jack crawled through the opening. As he advanced cautiously, there was more space, and when he reached Theodore's side he found himself in a cave about six feet in height, and large enough to hold several people comfortably. Theodore had successfully relit his candle, and by its feeble light they examined the place, afterwards sitting down on the stony floor side by side to talk matters over.
"This is something like an adventure," Theodore commenced. "Aren't you glad you came, Jack?"
"Yes," Jack replied, pleased with the novelty of the situation, his misgivings entirely gone. "I never saw a cave before; did you?"
"Never. Fancy that old hermit living here by himself! I wonder what made him do it!"
"I don't know. If he was a very good man, perhaps he didn't feel lonely because he knew God was with him. But oh, Theo, I couldn't bear to stay here! could you?"
"No; I should not like it by night," Theodore acknowledged, "though it's very dry and comfortable. Don't you think we might have the rest of our cake now?"
"I'm not hungry."
"Oh, nonsense; you must be. I'm simply starving."
But Jack's appetite had failed. He could not eat the remainder of his cake; so when Theodore had disposed of his own share, he was prevailed upon to finish his stepbrother's too.
They were both very thirsty; but it was no good dwelling on that fact, as there was no water to be had anywhere. Even Theodore was a little tired after their walk and climb, so that he was not as restless and as eager to move about as usual.
They remained in the cave until their candle was nearly consumed; then Jack suggested the advisability of making a start. He was the first to crawl out of the cave, and Theodore followed immediately.
"How cold it is!" the latter exclaimed, as they rose to their feet and looked around; "But there's no sun this side of the Tor—that's how it is."
A faint blue mist was creeping over the hills. Jack noticed it with an uneasy sensation; it looked so like the mist of evening.
"Let us go around to the sunny side," Theodore suggested, with a shiver; "and then perhaps we had better start for home. It seems later than I thought."
"But there is no sun," Jack said. "I think it must have set whilst we were in the cave."
"Then we must go at once. Let me see—which way did we come up?"
"I—I don't know," Jack acknowledged falteringly.
The boys looked at each other in dismay. In which direction lay the village of Naraton? Neither could tell. But Theodore did not want to allow he was as ignorant as his companion. He peremptory bade his stepbrother follow him, and started clambering down the Tor. It had been a difficult climb up; it was far more difficult going down. Once Jack stumbled, but though he cut his knees, he said it was nothing, manfully shaking off the feeling of faintness which threatened to overcome him. At last, however, he was obliged to ask Theodore to allow him a few minutes to rest; and the two boys sat down, whilst the faint blue mist crept nearer and nearer, and a sense of despair took possession of each young heart.
"Oh, Jack!" said Theodore, with a catch in his breath which sounded very like a sob, "what shall we do? We shall never get home?"
"Oh, yes, we shall," Jack replied reassuringly, "we'll start again in a moment."
"But I don't know the way!" Theodore confessed.
"Nor do I! Shall we ask God to show it to us, Theo?"
"You ask Him, will you, old fellow?"
Jack readily complied. Kneeling on the heather, in spite of his injured knees, he lifted up his voice in prayer to God for help and guidance, whilst Theodore's heart echoed the petition, though his lips uttered no sound. They did not seek to hide their true position from each other any longer, but bravely faced the fact that they had lost their way, and might very probably be obliged to spend the night on the moor, whilst they were being sought for in vain.
"OH, Jack, I wish we had never come," Theodore said dolefully, after his stepbrother had concluded his simple prayer.
"It's no good wishing that now, Theo."
"Of course it's not; but—but it's all my fault."
"Oh, no, it's mine too."
"No," Theodore protested, "you did not really want to come, and I—I am sorry I made you. I said you were a coward, but you're not, Jack. It's I who am the coward!"
"Indeed, you're not; you've heaps of pluck. But don't you think we ought to go on now? I'm ready."
"Very well. How dark it's getting. I do hope there'll be a moon to-night. But no I remember it was new moon only a few days ago, so if it does rise it won't give much light."
"Never mind. I daresay we shall find our way home somehow. If only we could manage to get into the main road. I suppose if we were real explorers we should not mind being lost. Oh, what's that?"
Both boys started in sudden fright as a dark object rushed past them in the dim light. It was only a pony, however, and in spite of their anxious position, they laughed the next moment at the shock the harmless creature had given them.
"Do you remember what John Bawdon told us about the Dartmoor fogs?" Theodore questioned presently, as they slowly descended the hill, proceeding more carefully now.
"Yes; but I don't think this blue mist is a fog. Do you?"
"I don't know; perhaps not. I wonder if they're back from Dartmeet yet? If so, don't you think father will come to look for us?" Theodore suggested in a more hopeful tone.
"But he won't know where we are," Jack responded with a deep-drawn sigh; "we did not tell anyone where we were going. He would never think of looking for us so far away from home."
Theodore's only answer to this reasoning was a burst of tears. Jack, greatly surprised and dismayed, tried in vain to comfort him. He had seen Theodore cry many times from different causes, such as disappointment or anger, but only on one occasion—that on which his stepbrother had been proved instrumental in setting the hay-rick on fire—had he heard him weep in such a heart-broken way as this. The truth was, Theodore's conscience was pricking him sorely, and telling him how wrongly he had acted in overcoming Jack's scruples, and insisting on this expedition without the knowledge of those set in authority over him.
His tears were not caused by fear, although he was naturally very frightened at the prospect of a night on the moor, but rather by remorse at the thought of his conduct. He determined that if they were so fortunate as to reach home in safety, he would take all the blame on his own shoulders. What would his stepmother say if any harm came to her son? Did she not look to him who was so much the stronger, to protect and care for the weaker boy?
"Oh, Theo, please don't cry like that," Jack implored in distressed accents. "I can't bear to hear you."
"Oh, Jack, I'm very wicked!" Theodore replied, striving hard to check his sobs. "I ought never to have brought you here. But I thought we should have such a grand time, and so we did until we found out we were lost. I suppose we took longer coming than we considered. I did not think it would be dark so soon. Did you?"
"No. We stopped a great many times, but that was my fault, not yours," Jack said, generously. "It's getting very dark, isn't it? Keep near me, Theo; won't you? Don't let us lose each other."
"No, no, that would be worst of all. Are you very tired, Jack?"
"I am, rather; but I'm all right. Look!"
Jack clutched Theodore excitedly by the arm. It was now nearly dark, so that distant objects were not discernible at all; but about a hundred yards from the spot where the boys stood was a twinkling light moving in the opposite direction.
"It's a man carrying a lantern!" Theodore cried joyfully. "Let us shout to him to stop."
They both shouted until they were breathless, but the light continued to move away from them. They followed as quickly as they could, hand in hand, so as not to lose each other in the gloom. Suddenly the light disappeared altogether, but the minute after it reappeared, and the boys shouted afresh.
They had now reached the bottom of the hill where the ground was much less uneven, but instead of being dry as it had been on the Tor, it was so soppy in places that their feet were soon very wet, and they shivered in the chill mist.
"Stop!" shouted Theodore, judging from the appearance of the light that it was at a greater distance from them than when they first saw it. "Oh, stop! Hi, you there! Hi! Oh, Jack, the man or whoever it is must be as deaf as a post. Oh, look out!"
The last exclamation was called from Theodore, as Jack gave a piercing scream on suddenly finding himself almost knee deep in mud. Fortunate was ft for him that his stepbrother held his hand, or otherwise he would certainly have brought his short career to a close that night in a Dartmoor bog. As it was, Theodore, as soon as he realised what was happening, tightened his hold on Jack, and with a mighty effort succeeded in pulling him safely on firmer ground. The two boys clung together in the darkness, whilst the misleading light still flickered in the distance, now disappearing altogether, now shining brighter than before.
"Hi, hi!" shouted Theodore once more.
"Oh, Theo," Jack said, with a shiver of horror, "I don't believe it's a man with a lantern after all!"
"But what is it, Jack?" Theodore asked in bewilderment "There it is again!"
"It must be a will-o'-the-wisp! Don't you know what that is? Mother told me; but I never thought I should see one!"
"I don't understand! What is a will-o'-the-wisp? It's a real light, I'm sure! Oh, Jack, you don't think we're pixie-led, do you?" And Theodore, who had been hearing tales of pixies and their elfish tricks from Mrs. Fry, who was fond of discoursing on moorland folk-lore, gave a superstitious shudder.
"No, no! It's a real light which comes over marshy ground! Mother said that people have often followed will-o'-the-wisps into bogs. Oh, Theo, I think that's what we've been doing! Supposing you hadn't been holding my hand just now, the bog would have sucked me in, and I should never have been found. Oh, I wish we could get away from this dreadful, dreadful place! Look, there are two lights! Oh, they must be will-o'-the-wisps!"
It was perfectly true. A second light had appeared, but the boys had no intention of following either now. Even in his terror, Theodore was lost in amazement of the will-o'-the-wisps; but he realised that they had made a great mistake in leaving the higher ground. Very slowly and cautiously they retraced their footsteps, as they thought, but actually they were moving in quite another direction. All at once a sound broke upon their ears, which sent a thrill of hope through each wildly beating heart. It was the cackling of a fowl, evidently disturbed in its sleep by the sound of voices close at hand.
"We must be near a house," Jack breathed in tones of relief, "Oh, how thankful I am!"
Groping their way in the darkness they discovered a hedge, and presently found a small gate, through which they passed into a kitchen-garden, in one corner of which was a little white-washed cottage, with a fowl-house adjoining.
The boys felt that the worst of their troubles must now be over, but what was their disappointment when they found the cottage door locked against them, and no light in any of the rooms. The cottage had evidently no one in it, for though they knocked and knocked, there was no sound from within.
"What shall we do?" Jack asked despairingly. "Had we better wait here, do you think?"
Theodore considered the matter in silence for a few minutes; then he remarked that the cottage was probably near a road, and if they could find it they would very likely come across someone.
"But don't let us go out the way we came," he said, "or perhaps we shall get into boggy land again. There ought to be another way out of the garden. Let me help you to climb up this hedge, Jack, and perhaps you may be able to see what's outside."
Jack willingly agreed to this proposition, and, with Theodore's assistance, succeeded in getting on the top of the hedge. Immediately, he uttered a cry of relief.
"We've come to a road," he informed his stepbrother joyfully; "I can see it quite plainly. I don't believe it's so dark as it was, either!"
"A road!" Theodore exclaimed. "That's splendid! Wait! I'm going to climb up to you! Yes, I think it is lighter; I believe the moon's rising."
Theodore spoke almost cheerfully, for if there was a road he knew it must lead somewhere; but the next moment he uttered a piercing shriek, followed by a groan of agony.
"Theo, Theo, what is it?" Jack asked in a fever of terror. "What have you done? Oh, Theo!"
But Theodore continued to groan without making any reply. Jack scrambled down the hedge and felt his way to his stepbrother's side. Then Theodore gasped:
"Don't touch me! Don't! don't!"
"Oh, tell me what is the matter!" Jack implored.
"I don't know! My left hand's caught in something! Oh, what shall I do? It's like something biting me! Don't touch it! If I move it's worse!"
"Let me see what it is!"
"You can't! Yes, take the matches from my pocket, and strike a light! Oh, Jack, quickly, quickly!"
Jack obeyed as fast as his trembling fingers allow him. After several vain attempts he succeeded in lighting a wax match, the sight which met his eyes turned him sick with horror. Theodore was leaning against the hedge with his left hand caught between the iron teeth of a fox-gin. The boys saw it was hopeless their trying to open the trap, for the least movement gave Theodore agonising pain. The iron chain attached to the gin was firmly secured to a stake, and no efforts on their part could unfasten it. Poor Theodore's hand was bleeding, and the pain he was suffering was turning him faint and dizzy.
"Oh, Jack!" he moaned, "what shall I do? Do you think I shall die?"
"No, no, Theo. Is it hurting you dreadfully?"
"Oh, yes!" Theodore assented with a bitter wail, which went to Jack's heart. "Oh, I wish father was here! Oh, Jack, can't you ask God to send some one to help us? And I'll ask Him too!"
Jack put his arms around his brother, whilst together in their despair they called upon their Father in heaven. Theodore's voice was growing weaker and weaker, but the feeling of faintness was deadening all sensation of pain. He lay against the hedge motionless when Jack removed his arms from around him, and gave no reply to his stepbrother's frightened request that he would speak to him.
Dreadfully alarmed though he was, Jack did not lose his head, as many boys would have done under the circumstances. There was still one match remaining in the box. This he cautiously lit, and by its feeble light saw that Theodore's eyes were closed, and his face perfectly colourless. For one moment he believed his stepbrother to be dead or dying; but the next, he thought that probably Theodore had only fainted, which was indeed the case.
Jack was the owner of a brave heart, so that after a moment's consideration he decided that he must go to seek assistance. He pressed a gentle kiss on Theodore's cheek; and then clambering up the hedge, dropped into the road on the other side. He did not know which way to go; but with a silent prayer to God to direct his footsteps, he turned to the right, and sped along as fast as his trembling limbs would carry him. He had not gone far before he came to two cross-roads, and after a slight hesitation, again took the right. By that time he was obliged to slacken his speed, for he was breathless and panting. He walked on slowly, holding his hand to his side, and praying that some one might be sent to help him. It was certainly growing lighter, he thought; and raising his eyes to the sky, he saw that the moon had arisen—a thin, silver crescent, it was true, but Jack felt less lonely at the sight.
How tired he was, and how heavy his feet seemed to be getting; they dragged as he walked. Oh, would no one ever come! To think of poor Theodore's pitiable plight all this while. Surely, soon he must reach some house, where he would find people willing to return with him to his stepbrother's assistance.
He struggled valiantly on, fighting against a strong desire to lie down and rest. At last, just as he was thinking that he could go no further, he heard sounds in the distance—carriage wheels, and the barking of a dog. Two lights appeared, coming towards him on the road, not will-o'-the-wisps this time, but the lamps of Mr. Fry's gig; and it was Help who was barking, as he bounded along by Boxer's side.
Jack exerted all his remaining strength, and shouted wildly; whilst Help jumped around him in delight, and old Boxer slackened his speed. The little boy ran forward as the gig stopped. He recognised the voices of Mr. Fry and his stepfather, and heard the latter exclaim: "Here they are, thank God!"
"Father—father!" Jack cried. "Oh, how glad I am!"
"Why, it's only one of them," Mr. Barton said in tones of misgiving, as he hastily dismounted from the gig. "Jack, is it you?"
"Yes, father," the little boy answered. "Theodore is not here. He is caught in a trap with such dreadful teeth! Oh, you must come quickly, or I am afraid he will die! Oh, poor Theo!"
And overcome with fatigue and fright, Jack threw himself into his stepfather's arms, and burst into a passion of tears and sobs.
WE must now revert to the time when, having finished her task of darning the boys' stockings, Jane had gone downstairs, expecting to have found Theodore and Jack waiting for her to take them for a walk. At first she had believed they were on the premises, probably hiding for fun; but on paying a visit to the kitchen, she had discovered how they had begged cake of Mrs. Fry, saying they were going to have a picnic by themselves, and how the farmer had seen them hurrying away together. She had felt vexed, but had not been in the least anxious on their account; and having realised the folly of trying to find the truants, had spent the afternoon in her own room, employed in needlework for herself. When tea-time had not brought the boys back to the farm, however, she had been seriously annoyed with them; but on Mr. and Mrs. Barton's return, at seven o'clock, her annoyance had given place to direst alarm. In a few words she explained that the boys had gone off without allowing her to know their intentions, and that she had never suspected them of any secret purpose until she found them missing. Mr. Barton had immediately paid a visit to the village, but the boys had not been seen there during that day. When darkness had come on, a search-party had been organised, in which Seth Stanley and several others had joined. The blacksmith, remembering the many questions Theodore had put to him concerning the Hermit's Cave, had started to look for the boys in that spot; whilst the other searchers had disappeared in different directions; and Mr. Barton, in company with Mr. Fry, had driven off to make enquiries in the neighbouring villages. The two latter had been returning to Blackburn Farm after a fruitless quest, when they had met little Jack, and had learned from him of Theodore's terrible plight.
"The poor child must be caught in a fox-trap!" Mr. Barton exclaimed in tones of dismay. "What do you think, Fry?" he asked his companion.
Mr. Fry agreed with Mr. Barton that what Jack called a "trap with such dreadful teeth" would most probably be a fox-gin, and asked Jack to explain where he had left his brother. The farmer knew the cottage well, so the two men took Jack between them in the gig, and drove away as fast as old Boxer could go.
Very few words were spoken, for Mr. Barton was far too concerned about Theodore to ask Jack any questions. Once he said, "My poor boy! my poor Theodore!" and Mr. Fry urged Boxer to increase his speed.
Jack had now somewhat regained his composure, so that when they arrived at the little white-washed cottage he was able to point out the spot where he had left Theodore. The two men got over the hedge, leaving Jack in the gig, with Help in charge, for Boxer's master knew he was to be trusted not to move a step until he returned to him.
Jack shook with suspense and suppressed excitement as he listened to the voices of the others. How would they find Theodore? They were longer than he expected; and presently, being unable to bear the uncertainty any longer, he stood up in the gig to try and look over the hedge; but he could only see the lantern which Mr. Fry was carrying.
"Father!" he said nervously; "oh, father, do tell me Theodore is not dead!"
"Theodore is not here," was the amazing answer, in his stepfather's voice, which sounded full of bewilderment and anxiety.
"Oh, father, he must be! I am sure that is the right place!" cried Jack, in an agony of terror. "Oh, he must be there!"
"No, he is not. We have found the gin, but some one has been before us. Theodore is not here."
"Perhaps he opened the trap himself," Jack suggested, although he knew that was most unlikely.
"Quite impossible," Mr. Barton responded. "Wait where you are, Jack. We are going to make a thorough search."
Jack sat down again, his mind in a whirl of confusion. Theodore gone! It was marvellous! At any rate, he had been released from the dreadful trap; there was comfort to be found in that thought, at least.
Meanwhile, Mr. Barton and the farmer were holding a consultation on the other side of the hedge. They had found the cruel gin, which had evidently been set to entrap a fox, should one be tempted to visit the hen's roost, with its teeth wide apart, bearing witness to the truth of Jack's story by the blood stains upon it. There were marks of nailed boots near the place, and the hedge had been broken down at the top, as though some heavy person had climbed it. One thing was certain, that Theodore was nowhere near; therefore, it seemed most probable that whoever had released him from the trap had conveyed him away by road.
"The poor boy must have suffered agonies," Mr. Barton said in a tremulous tone as he examined the gin. "What a ghastly instrument of torture it is! I thought it was illegal to set these things?"
The farmer said it was, but added that it was nevertheless often done by poultry-keepers.
The owner of the cottage was an old man, a bachelor, who lived alone—Peter Blake by name. Mr. Fry knew him well, but could not imagine why he was away from home, as he most evidently was.
"I do not see what more we can do," Mr. Barton said at length, with a sigh. "Theodore could not have freed himself from the gin; so whoever released him will doubtless see he has shelter for the night. Jack saw no one from the time he left here till he met us; but some one must have come by way of one of the cross-roads. That some one may have been driving, too, and would most likely take Theodore to Blackburn Farm. I think, Fry, our wisest plan will be to drive right home. It may be we shall find news of Theodore awaiting our return, even if he himself is not there. Let us start at once."
The farmer agreed to this plan. A few minutes later Boxer was again trotting towards Blackburn Farm. No doubt the old horse thought of his comfortable stable and supper of oats, for he exerted himself to trot his fastest, as though he had not already had a long journey that day.
Mr. Barton was intensely anxious about Theodore, though he tried to reassure his little stepson, who was trembling with apprehension of he knew not what.
"If only we could tell where he was," Jack whispered in a tearful voice. "You don't think he can have wandered away, and got lost in a bog, do you, father?"
"No, no; that is impossible! He has found a friend—or rather, a friend has found him."
"I don't think God would let any one hurt Theo," Jack said earnestly, "although He did let him get caught in that trap. Oh, I shall never forget it!" And he hid his eyes against Mr. Barton's sleeve, shuddering at the remembrance of Theodore's white face and closed eyes. "Is mother very frightened?" he asked presently.
"Yes, and Jane too!" Mr. Barton answered. "What made you boys go off without a word to any one, as you did?"
"We wanted to find the Hermit's Cave, and to pretend we were explorers. Oh, it was fine fun until we got lost!" and he proceeded to give an account of the afternoon and evening's adventures.
Mr. Barton's blood ran cold in his veins as the little boy spoke of the will-o'-the-wisps and the bog, whilst Mr. Fry, who was usually the most stolid of men, and rarely spoke except in response to a question, was moved to remark that it was a wonder Jack was there to tell the tale, seeing how near he must have been to one of the most dangerous spots on Dartmoor, which had proved fatal to unwary travellers on several occasions. Arrived at Blackburn Farm, they were surrounded by an excited group before they had time to get down from the gig.
"Here's Jack quite safe," Mr. Barton said immediately, "but have you seen or heard anything of Theodore?"
"No." What did Mr. Barton mean? Was not Theodore with him? Had not the boys been found together?
In a few brief words he explained that he had hoped to get news of his little son on his return, for he had not found him. As he sprang to the ground, and stood in the midst of the group, his wife came forward, and caught him by the arm, imploring him to tell what had happened, and why Theodore was not with him.
"Your boy is all right, Mary," he said gently. "See, there he is in Mr. Fry's arms! He's a bit done up, but no harm has come to him."
As soon as the farmer placed Jack on the ground, he ran to his mother's side. She turned to him and kissed him with tender affection, thanking God in her heart for her darling's safety.
"Come into the house, Mary," Mr. Barton said, striving to speak steadily, but his voice trembled in spite of his efforts to control it, "and then I'll tell you all I know. I'm in great trouble about Theodore!"
At that point Jane interposed. She had been standing by in bewilderment, scarcely realising at first that her master had not brought home Theodore as well as Jack; but now she came forward and enquired, in tones of strong emotion:
"Isn't Master Theodore here?"
"No, Jane," Mr. Barton replied. "I hoped you might have had news of him, but—"
"Where is he?" Jane cried wildly. "You don't mean to tell me you've left him on the moor—to die maybe! Oh, sir, forgive me if I forget myself, and speak as I ought not, but Master Theo's dearer to me than my own life! It was I who took him from his mother's arms, remember! And during the lonely years which followed, it was I who loved and cared for him! Oh, if anything has happened to him—"
"Hush, Jane!" Mr. Barton interrupted in moved tones. "Come inside with us, like a sensible woman, and we will talk matters over."
He led the way into the house, and into the parlour, where the household assembled to know what had become of Theodore; and many were the exclamations of dismay and consternation which greeted his story of the boys' adventures. When he spoke of Theodore's accident, Jane could not restrain her grief; she sobbed aloud, and would not be comforted. But when Jack went to her, and throwing his arms around her neck, mingled his tears with hers, she seemed to realise the folly of her behaviour.
"Oh, Master Jack, how wet and muddy you are, and as white as a sheet, I declare!" she cried, drying her streaming eyes. "I will put you to bed at once!"
"Yes, please, do," Mrs. Barton said quickly, thinking Jane would be better for being employed. "Go, Jack, like a good boy! Mrs. Fry will make you a basin of bread and milk; and I will come to see you after you are in bed."
Mrs. Fry nodded, and left the room to prepare Jack's supper, whilst the boy pleaded hard not to be sent to bed yet.
"Oh, let me stay up till Theo comes!" he cried piteously. "Oh, mother, do! Oh, father, ask her to let me stay up! I can't, I can't go to bed before Theo comes!"
"You must, my dear," his mother told him gently, but firmly; and Jack knew from the tone of her voice that she meant to be obeyed.
Mr. Barton had gone to the window, where he had drawn up the blind, and was now gazing out into the darkness. Jack would have liked to say good night to his stepfather, but his mother motioned to Jane to take him away.
He went upstairs with a bursting heart, his eyes full of tears, his breast heaving with sobs. Jane soon had him in bed; and when she had induced him to swallow the hot bread and milk which Mrs. Fry brought up to his room, she insisted on his closing his eyes, and trying to sleep, whilst she went downstairs to hear if there was any news of Theodore; and if not, what was being done to discover his whereabouts. Presently Jack heard his mother's light footsteps in the room. She came to him, and putting her arms around him, whispered that he must not grieve, for she was sure God would send Theodore back to them in safety; and meanwhile they must pray for him, and hope for the best.
"You should not have made a secret of where you were going," she said, with tender reproach in her loving voice; "you must have known it was not right! See what trouble you boys have brought about! But I will not scold you now, for you must be almost worn out. Try to sleep, my darling boy! I hope and believe that Theodore is in safety somewhere! His father has gone out again in search of him—his poor father!"
Mrs. Barton's voice broke at the remembrance of the white, shocked look on her husband's face. She said good night to Jack, kissed him once more, and turned to leave the room. As she passed Theodore's empty bed, she paused and gently rearranged the pillows, the tears which had been in her eyes all the while she had been talking to Jack, rolling down her cheeks as she thought of the high-spirited little lad, who was dearer to her than he himself guessed. Then she quietly left the room, meeting Jane outside the door, who asked if Jack was asleep yet.
"No," Mrs. Barton replied, "but I believe if we leave him alone he soon will be. Oh, Jane, don't cry any more! Try to think as I do, that God will take care of Theodore. I know how dearly you love him, but don't give way, and anticipate all sorts of misfortunes befalling him."
"When I think of the dear lamb by himself, with his hand in that gin, and suffering horribly, as I know he did, it almost breaks my heart!" Jane declared with a sob; "and now to think he can't be found!"
"But he will be," Mrs. Barton told her reassuringly; "I do really believe he is in safety now!"
Jane sighed deeply, but she dried her tears. After her mistress had gone downstairs, she stole softly into Jack's room, and found him sleeping the heavy sleep of utter exhaustion. She dropped on her knees by the bedside, and prayed fervently that God would restore her other little charge to her care. She had forgotten that Theodore had ever worried her, had ever been troublesome or disobedient; she remembered only his good qualities, his brave spirit, his warm loving heart; and it wrung her faithful soul to think of him lost—disappeared in so short a while, and in such a mysterious way.
"God bless him! God keep him, and send him home again!" were the words she kept repeating; and presently she arose from her knees, and went downstairs, her spirit calmed, to await with her mistress whatever news might come.
WHEN Mr. Barton started afresh in search of his little son it was with a very heavy heart, for he imagined that there was small likelihood of his gaining any information about Theodore that night; but he was far too troubled and restless to remain inactive, and therefore returned to the spot from which the boy had disappeared.
It was eleven o'clock when he left the farm, so that it was long past midnight before he reached the white-washed cottage, and climbing the hedge which divided the kitchen-garden from the road, sought the place where the fox-gin still remained, as he and Mr. Fry had left it more than two hours before. Once again he examined the iron trap, and carefully searched the surrounding ground. He was moving away, meaning to ascertain if the owner of the cottage had returned, when the sound of footsteps in the road made him pause and listen. A second later the footsteps stopped directly outside the hedge where Mr. Barton stood.
"This is where I found him," said a strange voice. "'Tis cruel work I call it, setting fox-gins."
"What! you found him in Peter Blake's garden!" cried another voice, which fell familiarly on the listener's ears. "You don't say so! Well, I always knew the old man was a cross-grained chap, and I've heard him grumble about the foxes often enough; but I never thought he did a little trapping on his own account."
"Then you didn't make the gin for him?" asked the strange voice.
"Not I. He'd know better than to ask me to do a job of that sort, Moses."
Mr. Barton waited to hear no more, but hastily clambered over the hedge, and sprang into the road close to the speakers, one of whom was the Naraton blacksmith, and the other, as it afterwards transpired, his brother, Moses Stanley.
"Mr. Barton!" cried Seth. "Is it you, sir?"
"Yes, it is I. I judge from your conversation that you have seen my little son."
"He's safe enough, sir," was the reassuring answer. "My brother found him with his hand caught in a fox-gin, and took him to his caravan, where he is at this moment, not ten minutes' walk from this spot."
"Thank God!" Mr. Barton exclaimed fervently. "His stepbrother left him, and went for assistance. Fortunately, Fry and I met him before he had gone very far; but on reaching here, we found Theodore had disappeared. You can imagine what my feelings have been!"
"Ah, that I can!" the blacksmith said, with a world of sympathy in his voice. "But where is Jack?"
"We took him back to the farm, hoping to find news of Theodore on our return."
"I've been miles and miles myself looking for the young gentleman, and was going home in despair when I chanced upon the Fairies' Glen and my brother's caravan. Chanced! No! there was no chance about it, I reckon! 'Twas the hand of Providence which guided my steps! In the Fairies' Glen I found Miriam—she's Moses' wife, sir—and the young ones. Then as I was talking with them, hearing where they'd been since I saw them last, home comes Moses carrying Master Theodore in his arms. 'Hulloa, Moses,' said I, 'what have you got there?' ''Tis a youngster as my dog found in a fox-gin,' said Moses, 'and he's a bit faint. Miriam must see to him.' I declare you could have knocked me down with a feather!"
"Yes, yes!" cried Mr. Barton eagerly, failing to see the absurdity of the blacksmith's last remark, as he would have done on any ordinary occasion.
"Miriam, she put him in her own bed," the blacksmith proceeded, "and after she had bathed and bound up his hand he soon came around. We gave him some warm milk, and after that he soon closed his eyes, and seemed more comfortable."
"Will you take me to him?" Mr. Barton asked turning to Moses, who had not yet spoken. "I can never be sufficiently thankful to you for having befriended my poor little boy, but having children of your own you will understand my feelings, I am sure. Your caravan is near by? Pray take me there at once!"
"Aye, that I will," was the response. "Seth, are you coming?"
"No," the blacksmith answered; "I can't do any good. You'd best let Master Theodore bide where he is for the night, sir," he added, addressing Mr. Barton.
"But I am afraid that may be inconvenient for your brother—"
"No," Moses answered promptly. "Miriam said he ought to be kept quiet; and we've a tent as well as the caravan. Let the little gentleman remain, if you please, sir."
"Thank you," Mr. Barton responded gratefully, "I shall be very glad if you will keep him. Seth, if you are going home, would it be too much to ask you, after all the trouble you've taken, to call at the farm, and let them know there of my little boy's safety?"
"No, sir. I shall be only too pleased to be the bearer of such good news!" was the cordial reply. "'All's well that ends well.' Good night, sir! Good night, Moses!"
The blacksmith started homewards at a swinging pace, whistling as he went, whilst Mr. Barton and his companion took the opposite direction.
Mr. Barton saw that Moses was very like his brother in height and build, but appeared a less talkative person, though he was evidently deeply interested in Theodore's adventures, and remarked that he was a fine little lad, and would like to deal himself with the man who had set the fox-gin.
When they came to the cross-roads, the gipsy took the one leading to the left—a narrow, rugged lane it was in reality, from which they presently turned into a rough, granite-strewn field, at the lower end of which was the Fairies' Glen, a natural hollow between high banks, covered with mossy sward, dotted with primroses and dog-violets.
Mr. Barton had never been there before, and he uttered an exclamation of surprise and admiration at the sight of the picturesque scene which met his eyes in the faint moonlight. The caravan had been placed at the entrance to the glen, slightly on one side, and close by, a tent had been erected. A peat fire smouldered at a little distance, over which a crock was suspended; whilst a grey horse was tethered at the back of the caravan.
Moses pointed to the tent, explained that his children were sleeping there to-night so as not to disturb the young gentleman, and said that the handsome greyhound stretched at the entrance was the dog that had been the real discoverer of Theodore; having found him, and called his master's attention to him by his sharp barks. Mr. Barton stooped down and patted the animals sleek head gratefully, whilst his companion tapped at the door of the caravan.
"Who's there?" asked as soft voice in a whisper. "Is it you, Moses?"
"Yes, Miriam. I've brought the little gentleman's father."
The door opened, and a dark, handsome young woman appeared at the top of the steps of the caravan. She was clad in a bright blue skirt, a scarlet bodice, and wore a gaudy amber-coloured neckerchief tied loosely around her throat.
"I'm glad the gentleman's come," she said simply, "for the poor little lad has become very restless, and I've had great difficulty in quieting him. Please to come in, sir!"
Mr. Barton obeyed with alacrity, for he was keenly anxious to see Theodore, to judge for himself how he was. He had never been inside a gipsy's caravan before, so he was surprised to find everything very neat and comfortable, and scrupulously clean; but when he saw Theodore on his hostess' bed he forgot all else, and hastened to his side.
"Oh, Theodore, thank God I have found you at last!" he exclaimed in tones of glad relief as he bent over his little son.
Theodore was looking flushed, and his eyes shone with unnatural brightness as he moved his head uneasily from side to side on the pillow. He met his father's glance with one full of dismay and terror.
"Oh, father!" he gasped. "Don't, don't be angry with me!"
"I am not angry, Theodore," Mr. Barton said, pressing a kiss on the boy's hot brow, and taking his uninjured hand. "Try not to excite yourself. Don't think of what you've gone through more than you can possibly help, for it's all over now."
"But Jack!" Theodore cried wildly. "Oh, father, he is lost on the moor."
"No, dear Theodore, he is not," was the reassuring answer. "He is at Blackburn Farm, and in bed and asleep by this time, I do not doubt. You need not trouble about Jack."
An expression of intense relief crossed Theodore's face. "I don't understand," he said feebly. "I thought—I feel so queer—I suppose it must have been a dream, but I thought Jack had fallen into a bog."
"No, no; you managed to get caught in a fox-gin though, and hurt your poor hand. See, it is bandaged. But Jack is perfectly safe and sound."
"Really and truly?" Theodore asked, wistfully.
"Really and truly," his father answered, earnestly. "I don't believe I ought to let you talk. Are you comfortable? I think you'll have to spend the night here—if you will be so good as to let him remain," Mr. Barton added, turning to Miriam, who was standing by.
"The little gentleman is welcome," she replied with that simple courtesy which is so often an attribute of the gipsy race.
"She has been very kind," Theodore told his father. "I think she is a very grand person although she is a gipsy. She says her great-great-grandfather was a king."
"I have been trying to amuse him, and keep his thoughts away from his troubles," Miriam explained, overhearing Theodore's remark, whispered though it was, a blush showing through her clear, dusky skin. "I fear his hand gives him pain," she added, sympathetically.
"Yes, it does," Theodore acknowledged.
"It will soon heal," Miriam said, noting the anxiety on the father's face; "I have some knowledge of wounds, and have cured worse hurts than this by bathing with a simple preparation made from herbs. I have dressed his hand carefully, and now that you have come and his mind is more easy, I think he will sleep. You would like to stay with him the night?"
"I should," Mr. Barton replied, hesitatingly, "but I fear I shall be in the way, I—"
"No, no," she interrupted, hospitably, "we have a tent outside and my husband and I will sleep with the children to-night. Please don't think we mind. Here is milk if the little gentleman is thirsty, and do not fail to call me for anything you want."
She smiled at Theodore, and withdrew. A minute later they heard her voice talking to her husband outside, and then followed silence.
The inner division of the caravan where Theodore lay in bed was lighted by a small lantern, which was suspended from the roof. By its faint, yellow light Mr. Barton watched Theodore's uneasy movements and flushed countenance with growing anxiety. He did not know that his presence had a disturbing influence on his son, nor did he guess the grief and remorse that was in Theodore's heart, until the silence was broken by a sob, and Theodore's head suddenly disappeared beneath the bedclothes.
Mr. Barton was stricken with astonishment. He hardly knew how to act or what to say, being in ignorance of the cause of Theodore's grief. But presently Theodore's head reappeared, and the little boy said with an heroic effort to speak without crying,—
"It was all my fault. I know Jack won't say so, but it was. He didn't want to go to the Hermit's Cave, but I made him; and if he had died in a bog it would have been my fault, and his mother would have hated me, and so would you, father! I—I never should have been happy any more."
"What are you talking about, Theodore?" Mr. Barton questioned. "Come, my boy, tell me all about it. You know it is not possible that I could ever hate you, and as for my wife—why, she never hated anyone in her life, I'm certain. Why should you think it? You are not fair to her. I have often thought you must have been prejudiced against her, but I don't wish you to tell me by whom," he said hastily. "When I married her I hoped she would be a mother to you as I hoped to be a father to her little son, but you would not allow her to love you—from the first you were against her. She wanted to make up to you, as far as lay in her power, for the loss you sustained when your own dear mother died, but—"
"They said you would think more of Jack than of me," Theodore broke in, "but I did not care. I was never jealous of Jack. I—I don't mind if you do like him best. He's better than me."
"Oh, Theodore!" Mr. Barton exclaimed, greatly shocked, "you distress me beyond measure. Jack is a gentle, winning little fellow, but you are my own son—the dearest object I possess. Come, confide in me the cause of your grief. What is it that is weighing upon your mind?"
Thus encouraged, Theodore gave an excited account of the way in which he had overcome Jack's scruples, and induced him to visit the Hermit's Cave. He did not spare himself, but took the entire blame upon his own shoulders, at the same time begging his father to forgive him, and imploring him to assure his stepmother that Jack was not in fault.
"It was all my doing," he said in conclusion, looking wistfully up into Mr. Barton's grave face. "I know I'm a great worry and trouble—Jane says so often, but I never before tried to make Jack do anything wrong."
"And I trust you never will again," his father returned, seriously. "God, in His infinite mercy, saved you both from a horrible death to-night, for if you had fallen into the bog—but there, I will not contemplate that. Thank God, I have you still!"
All through the night Mr. Barton sat by the bedside, and, now that Theodore had made his confession, his father's presence disturbed him no longer, but rather gave him a sense of security, for presently he fell asleep. His was an uneasy slumber, however, with disturbed dreams, for he cried out constantly that Jack was lost, and started up in bed on several occasions, shaking with fright, to be reassured by his father's voice that all was well.
It was with a sense of relief that Mr. Barton at length saw through the tiny window of the caravan that the dawn of another day was breaking, and knew that his vigil was nearly at an end.
WORN out with fatigue as little Jack was, it was small wonder he slept soundly the night following his harrowing experiences on the moor, in spite of his deep concern about his stepbrother. He was awakened by the sound of voices, and opened his eyes to see Jane standing by his bedside with a tray containing his breakfast in her hands, and his mother bending over him. With awakening thought came remembrance of last night's adventures; and he started up in bed, looking eagerly around for Theodore, an expression of distress and sorrow on his countenance.
"Theodore is safe, my darling," Mrs. Barton said, as she kissed her little son. "I will tell you where he is, and all I know about him, whilst you eat your breakfast."
"And mind you eat all you can, Master Jack," Jane told him, "for you are looking but poorly this morning. But there!" with an indignant sniff, "'tis no wonder, I'm sure! I hope all that happened to you yesterday will be a wholesome lesson to you, and Master Theodore too."
Now that her mind was at rest concerning the safety of her little master, Jane felt it would be a great relief to her feelings to give the boys both a good scolding; and she had the satisfaction of seeing a guilty flush rise to Jack's pale face before she left the room.
Alone with his mother, he soon learnt what had befallen his stepbrother after he had left him; for the blacksmith, true to his promise, had called at the farm ere he had returned to his home, and had told all he knew concerning Theodore. It was now nine o'clock, and further news was expected every minute; for Mrs. Barton rightly guessed that her husband would bring Theodore back to the farm as soon as possible.
At first Jack's mind had room for only one thought—his stepbrother's safety. But as his mother talked to him, he saw that her eyes were full of reproach, and his conscience told him the cause.
"Jack," she said at length, "you knew you and Theodore were acting wrongly yesterday, did you not?"
"Yes," he acknowledged, hanging his head.
"It was very naughty of you, and very unkind to all of us!"
"We meant to be home before dark," Jack began, then added quickly, "oh, mother, I knew all the time you wouldn't have let us go alone if you'd known!"
"And you purposely kept Jane in the dark, too?"
"Yes."
"Oh, Jack!"
The sorrowful tone of his mother's voice cut Jack to the heart; a great lump rose in his throat, and he restrained his tears with an effort.
"I'm very sorry," he murmured; "and so is Theo—he told me he was!"
"You boys have made us very unhappy, and upset the whole household—nay, more, the whole village!"
"I am very sorry," Jack repeated; "I am indeed! I hate to think we have made you miserable, and given so much trouble to everybody. We did not mean to get lost."
"Well, I will say no more about it, for I think you have had punishment enough. But I hope you will never act so wrongly again."
"Never, never!" Jack cried. "Oh, mother, do please believe that!"
"I do believe it. When you say your prayers, do not forget to thank God for His mercy in saving you from a horrible death last night. Oh, my boy, shudder when I think what might have happened!"
A hot tear splashed down Jack's cheek, but he wiped it hastily away. His mother saw that he was truly repentant, and said no more; but before she left him she gave him a loving kiss, which he knew expressed her full forgiveness.
His breakfast finished, Jack got up and proceeded to dress. He felt very tired, but otherwise perfectly well. A long while he knelt in prayer, for he had so much to thank God for this morning, and he did not forget to humbly ask pardon for his wrong-doing. He realised quite well that he ought not to have allowed Theodore to influence him to visit the Hermit's Cave without Mr. and Mrs. Barton's knowledge; but his fear of being thought a coward had made him fall in with his stepbrother's plans. He had known it was wrong—there lay the sin.
When Jack went downstairs he found a messenger had just arrived to say that Mr. Barton and Theodore were coming; and presently a caravan was seen entering the farmyard, drawn by a large grey horse, followed by a group of dark, curly-haired gipsy children. Moses Stanley walked at the horse's head, whilst his wife rode in front of the caravan.
Neither Mr. Barton nor Theodore were visible until the caravan came to a full stop in front of the door, and Moses let down the steps, when the former appeared and smiled as he caught sight of his wife, who with Jack and the rest of the household had come into the yard.
"How is Theodore?" Mrs. Barton asked, whilst Jane tried to peer into the caravan.
"Not very bright, of course, Mary; but better than I expected he would have been this morning," was the response.
"Well, Jack, are you all right?"
"Oh, yes, thank you, father!" the little boy answered.
"That's well. Stand back a minute, Jane. You shall see Theodore in a minute."
Even as Mr. Barton spoke, Theodore appeared at his side, looking very white and crestfallen.
Jane caught him in her arms, and bore him triumphantly into the house, covering his face with kisses; which treatment secretly irritated him greatly, for he felt his position anything but dignified for a boy of his age.
In the parlour, Jane laid him on the sofa, and stood back herself to allow Jack a few words with his stepbrother. But the boys had very little to say to each other then. Jack merely enquired how Theodore was feeling, and if his hand was sore; whilst Theodore murmured in a husky voice:
"I'm all right, old fellow."
Mrs. Barton remained in the yard to speak a few words to Moses and Miriam, and to learn that the gipsy family intended to encamp in one of Mr. Fry's fields for a few days. When she entered the parlour with her husband, Theodore glanced at her nervously. She spoke to him in her usual kind and affectionate manner; but he could find no words in response, and a little hurt, she left him to Jane's tender mercies.
Mr. Barton had sent for a doctor to look at Theodore's hand. When he arrived, much to every one's relief he made light of the case, and said the wounds would soon heal; but added that the boy had had a shock, and he must be kept quiet for a few days. He was to get up late, go to rest early, and take life easily.
"Am I to have my breakfast in bed?" asked Theodore.
"Certainly," the doctor replied, laughing; "do so by all means, if you wish."
Theodore smiled with gratification on hearing this; for he looked upon being allowed to breakfast in bed as a great treat, having never done so but on the very few occasions when he had had bad colds, and Jane had indulged him.
He lay on the sofa all day, on the whole finding being an invalid not an unpleasant experience, now that his hand was less painful. He told Jack all about Miriam, and what a cosy home a caravan really was, saying that he thought he would like to be a gipsy, and travel about the country as he pleased.
During the day an unexpected visitor arrived at Blackburn Farm, no other than Peter Blake, the owner of the white-washed cottage and the fox-gin. He was terribly grieved at what had occurred, he told Mr. Barton; he would not have had it happen for any amount of money! He confessed he had set the gin because he was so "worrited" with foxes—that was his only excuse. He hoped the young gentleman was not seriously injured, and if Mr. Barton would refrain from prosecuting him, he would faithfully promise never to set a trap again. As there was no advantage to be gained by prosecuting the old man, Mr. Barton relieved his mind on that score, and accepted his promise. Peter Blake was profuse in his gratitude and thanks, as, indeed, he had good cause to be. He explained his absence from home on the preceding night by telling how he had gone to visit a sick brother living in a neighbouring village, and had sat up with his wife as she had had no one else at hand to assist her in the nursing. When he had returned home early in the morning he had found his gin unset and bloodstained, and the hedge trampled down. Later he had learnt what had befallen Theodore on his premises, and had hastened to Mr. Barton to express his regrets.
"I hope I have done right in letting the matter pass thus," Mr. Barton said to his wife when Peter Blake had gone, much relieved at the knowledge that Theodore's hand was doing well, and with the assurance that he would not be prosecuted, "but Fry tells me the old man will have all the hunting folks in the county down on him for having tried to entrap a fox, and I judged he would find that punishment enough."
That same afternoon Mr. Barton asked Jack, who was hovering about his stepbrother with tender solicitude, if he would like to pay the gipsies' encampment a visit; and accordingly the two started off together, leaving Theodore and Mrs. Barton alone. She moved her chair close to the boy's sofa, and strove hard to amuse him, but it was a thankless task, for Theodore was disinclined for conversation, being secretly annoyed because Jack had left him.
"Shall I read to you?" Mrs. Barton asked, "or would you like me to tell you a story?"
Theodore declared his head ached, and he wanted to be quiet. On hearing this, his stepmother removed her chair to the opposite side of the room, and took up some needlework. Theodore watched her wistfully, regretting that he had driven her away. He thought her face looked a little sad and pale, and once he fancied he heard her sigh. She must have been very anxious about Jack last night, he remembered, and he was conscious that he ought to exonerate his stepbrother from blame in her sight.
"It was all my fault yesterday," he said, bluntly, "I mean that we got lost. Did Jack tell you how I made him go?"
She put down her work, and glanced at him in surprise, shaking her head.
"I told father all about it, and he forgave me," Theodore proceeded. "I—I should like to tell you too."
"Yes?"
"If any harm had come to Jack it would have been my fault, because I made him go with me, I did. He didn't want to go at all. So he never told you? Well, he is a brick!" Theodore's tone was full of admiration for his stepbrother. "I suppose he didn't want to get me into a row," he continued, "but I hope you didn't scold him. Oh, I don't know what I should have done if anything had happened to Jack."
"Tell me all about it, Theodore," Mrs. Barton said, looking mystified. "How did you make Jack go? Even if you did influence him he was to blame all the same."
Theodore entered into an explanation, concealing nothing. When he had finished his tale he said, dolefully, "Father thought you would forgive me, but perhaps he didn't know."
"Oh, yes, yes; he was quite right. Say no more about it, Theodore. God has given you boys back to us, and I don't believe you will ever try to induce Jack to do wrong again."
"I never, never will," he declared, earnestly.
"Theodore," said Mrs. Barton, gently, "I am going to speak to you as I speak to Jack, as though you were my own son, because I love you dearly, and—"
"Do you really?" Theodore asked, his cheeks flushing, his eyes shining brightly. "Do you really love me when I've been so naughty, and made Jack naughty too?"
"Indeed, I do."
There was a struggle going on in the boy's heart at that moment between a strong desire to respond to his stepmother's affection, and the wilfulness and pride he had harboured so long.
"I—I don't deserve you should," he said, falteringly, "because I'm not good like Jack. I should like to be, but I can't."
Mrs. Barton rose impulsively from her seat, and, crossing the room, knelt down by Theodore's sofa, so that his face was on a level with hers. There were tears in her soft, brown eyes—eyes so like her little son's—and at the sight Theodore's mistrust of his stepmother died for ever, and, flinging his uninjured arm around her neck, he gave her the first kiss he had ever voluntarily bestowed upon her.
"I never really hated you," he whispered. "I only said it because I was wicked; I often am, you know. But I mean to be better, and you will help me, won't you, like you help Jack?"
"Oh, yes, yes; you are both my dear boys."
"And I—I will call you 'Mother,'" Theodore continued. "I don't think she will mind—my real mother, I mean."
"No, no. I can never quite make up to you for her loss, my dear, but I will do my best, so that some day I may be able to say to her, 'I did what I could to take your place.'"
This idea pleased Theodore. He remained very quiet for some minutes, then he said, tremulously, "Do you know what I thought when Jack and I were wandering about the moor last night? It was how you would hate me if anything happened to Jack, and—and I knew I hadn't always been nice to you, and I asked God to take care of Jack before me, because I had made him come. Then I got caught in that dreadful gin, and when I woke up in the caravan I couldn't think what had become of Jack, and Seth didn't know, or Moses, or Miriam, or anyone. Oh, you can't think how glad I felt when father came and told me Jack was all right. Nothing seemed to matter after that. I think it was noble of Jack not to tell how I made him go, and when I had been so nasty to him too! I called him a coward, and said all sorts of disagreeable things."
Theodore's face was full of excitement. His stepmother looked at him a trifle anxiously. Rising to her feet she again drew a chair to the side of the sofa, and, seating herself thereon, talked to him in a soothing tone on different subjects till he grew more composed.
Presently Jane came to see how her little master was, but, finding him deep in conversation with his stepmother, would have retired without a word if Mrs. Barton had not stopped her.
"Jane," she said in her pleasant voice, "his father and I have forgiven him the anxiety and trouble he caused us, and we hope you will do the same."
"Yes, please, do, Jane," Theodore said, earnestly. "I am very, very sorry. I suppose you found out I had taken the matches from your dressing-table? I really don't know what we should have done without them."
"Oh, that's what you were up to, was it?" Jane cried. "I found the matches gone; I might have guessed you had them. Well, Master Theodore, if you want my forgiveness you have it, though I do think you treated me badly."
When Jack and his stepfather returned they found Theodore cheerful and happy, with Mrs. Barton seated at his side, looking bright and animated.
"Back already!" Theodore exclaimed in surprise.
"Why, Theo, we've been away two hours nearly," Jack cried. "What have you been doing all the time? I suppose you've been talking?" he said, dubiously.
Theodore nodded.
"Secrets?" asked Jack.
Again Theodore nodded, but this time he spoke as well. "Nothing to do with anyone besides ourselves," he explained; then added, a little shyly, "secrets between mother and me."