“Master do want to know if we’ve a’ been judged yet, my dear,” returned Becky soothingly.  “I reckon he’ll be surprised when he do hear how we’ve a-been used.”

“’Ees indeed,” sighed Bithey, and she wiped her eyes with a corner of her shawl.

“There, don’t take ’ee on, my dear,” said Rebecca, patting her hand affectionately.  “The poor soul,” she explained, turning to the farmer and his wife, who were gazing at the pair open-mouthed, “the poor soul do seem to be quite undone.  I d’ ’low ’twas a shame to go and disapp’int her so.  ’Twill ha’ gied her quite a turn—at her age an’ all.”

“’Tis no worse for me nor ’tis for you, my dear,” put in Bithey with a groan of sympathy.  “You had farther to come nor me, an’ you must be half shook to pieces a-ridin’ in that wold cart.”

“In the name o’ fortun’,” cried the exasperated Mr. Meatyard, “which on you did get the prize?  There you do go chatterin’ an’ jabberin’ and neither of you will tell us which be the winner.”

“’Tis the most unfairest thing you ever did hear on!” exclaimed Becky.  “There was the two of us—the woldest women for miles round, I’ll go bail.  I’m sure ye did only need to look at Bithey here to see it.”

“And I’m sure,” wailed Tabitha, “the very sight o’ your grey hair did ought to ha’ shamed them, Becky.”

Here the impatient farmer made a sudden lunge at them, almost after the fashion of the curly-horned prize ram, and the two old women simultaneously announced in an agitated whimper:—

“There, they didn’t give the prize to neither of us!”

“Dear heart alive! you don’t say so?” said Mrs. Meatyard, after a pause of blank amazement, while her husband uttered a shrill whistle.  “Didn’t ’ee get no prize at all then?”

“Wasn’t ’ee so much as ‘’Ighly Commended,’ Beck?” cried her master, recovering from his stupor, and uttering a roar of laughter.

“Whew!” whistled the farmer again, “you don’t say so!  Well, I never did—there must ha’ been some reason as you didn’t know on.”

“Maybe she was blind,” suggested Mrs. Meatyard.  “That ’ud be a p’int in her favour.”

“No more blind nor yourself, ma’am,” returned Becky almost triumphantly.  “She’d a-been thirty year in the one place—that was all as I could hear as she could say for herself, and they went and give her the butter-dish wi’out no more talk than that.  So, when I did see how upset poor Bithey was—an’ she so troubled with the rheumatiz, poor wold body—I jist says to her, says I, ‘You take my arm, my dear,’ says I; ‘you jist come along of I.’  And she were glad enough to do it.”

Mr. Meatyard slapped his thigh and shouted with laughter.

“You’ve changed your note, I see—both on you,” he exclaimed as soon as he could speak.  “Well, and where are you bound for now?”

“Why, d’ye see, sir,” said Becky, “her an’ me is both tired o’ this—we are—jist about!  And so she says to me, says she, ‘Let’s go over to one o’ them little booths over there and set down for a bit, and rest us.’  Didn’t ye, Bithey?”

“I did,” said Bithey, “and I says, ‘Becky,’ says I, ‘arter all this standin’, an’ all this talkin’, and all the dust and sawdust flyin’ about, I’m awful dry,’ I says; ‘what would you say,’ says I, ‘to a bottle of Pop?’”

The farmer laughed again, but his wife strongly advised the old couple to have recourse to that restorative, and they therefore toddled away together to drown the memory of their differences and, if possible, of their disappointment in a sparkling and innocuous glass.

“Well, I don’t believe in no such nonsense.  Folks do get a-talkin’ and a-carryin’ tales fro’ one to the other, but I never met anybody yet as see a ghost, and I don’t believe nobody ever did!”

“You are wrong for once then,” cried Martha; and she pulled away her arm, the elbow of which had till then been linked in Sam Bundy’s—for the two were “walking” in orthodox fashion—and turned round to face him, an angry flush mounting in her cheeks.

Martha Dale was a very pretty girl, and never more so than in her working dress, which, being of pink cotton, intensified the glow on her cheeks and threw into yet stronger relief the darkness of eyes and hair.  A little fitful evening breeze was now playing with the dusky tendrils about her brow, setting one tiny curl dancing, indeed, after a fashion which Sam would have found tantalising at any other time; but now he was too much in earnest.

“Thank ’ee,” rejoined Martha.  “I s’pose my own grandma is a liar then, for ’twas she as told me the tale, and she did say as she saw it wi’ her own eyes.”

“What, a ghost?”

“No, it couldn’t ha’ been a ghost for ’twas the sperret of a man as was alive.  ’Twas the custom, she says, for all the young folks to wait outside church-porch at midnight on Midsummer Eve, and if they was to get married during the year they’d see the sperrets of them they was to get married with go into the church and come out again.  And they’d see the sperret, or the shape, or whatever ye mid call it, of them as was to die during the year too—only that kind didn’t never come out o’ the church again; they did jist walk in wi’ grave sorrowful faces, and did seem to bide there.  But my grandma she telled me often how plain she saw granfer a-comin’ out of church—there, he did pass so close to her she could very nigh ha’ touched him, only she was afeared.  And sure enough he axed her two months arter to the very day.”

“Ye don’t believe me, I see,” said Martha quickly.

“Oh, I don’t say that.  I b’lieve ye think you are speakin’ the truth—’tis as true as you heared it—’tisn’t as if you was tryin’ to make me believe as you’d seen the thing yourself.”

“Well, then,” said Martha, with a flash in her black eyes, “I’ll be tellin’ you that, come next Midsummer Eve.  I’ll go myself, and stand in church-porch, and maybe I’ll see Bob Ellery a-comin’ out.”

“Bob Ellery!” ejaculated Sam, stopping short again, and throwing away his blade of grass.  “Is it him ye’re thinkin’ of lookin’ for?”

“Why not?” said Martha, slightly raising her voice; “as well him as another.”

“Well,” said Sam, striking the nailed heel of his heavy boot into the ground, “he’s just the one to be up to sich foolishness—the biggest sammy between this and Dorchester.”

“Now look ye here, Martha,” said Sam, controlling his rising anger.  “This here be real foolish talk between you and I, as has been a-walkin’ ever since Christmas.  If you was to look for anybody a-comin’ out o’ church, it should be me!”

“Oh, but you are much too grand to think o’ lettin’ your sperret do any sich thing.  Bob bain’t so stuck up—he don’t set up for being no wiser than the rest of us.  But as for you—if we was to spill the salt between us I don’t suppose you’d ever think o’ throwin’ a pinch over your shoulder.”

“I don’t suppose I should,” he replied, bluntly.

“You was brought up wi’ such notions!” she continued.  “Your mother didn’t ever set ye on a donkey’s back wi’ your face to the tail, did she?”

“I can’t call to mind as she did,” returned he, staring.

“Because he didn’t sit with his face to the ass’s tail,” said Sam, relaxing into a broad grin.

“Ye did ought to be ashamed o’ yourself, Sam, to go a-sneerin’ like that—there be a cross on the donkey’s back.”

Sam thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his corduroys, and paced beside her without speaking for a moment or two; then he turned to her with a good-humoured laugh:—

“Believe what you like, my maid, only don’t ask me to say I do do it!”

“I’m not axin’ you nothin’ at all, I’m sure,” returned Martha indifferently, though again the tell-tale colour swept over cheek and brow.  She stooped presently, and plucked an ox-eye daisy from beneath the hedge.

“This year; next year; some time; never!  This year—next year—some time—never—This year—next year—some time—never!  This year!—I wonder if ’tis to be wi’ Bob Ellery.  Come, I’ll try his fortune.”

“Martha,” he said, “there be some things a man can stand, and there be some things he can’t.  Now I can’t stand hearing you carry on this ’ere kind o’ nonsense about Bob Ellery.  It’s got to be one way or t’other—him or me.  If it’s me jist gi’e me your word as ye’ll drop this ’ere talk o’ tryin’ your fortun’ wi’ him.  If it’s him in earnest—I’ll bid you good evenin’.”

Martha was proud as well as pretty, and resented the peremptory tone; she jerked away her hands, and tossed her head.

“P’r’aps I won’t wait for you to say it, Mr. Bundy—p’r’aps I can say ‘Good evenin’’ jist so plain as ye can yourself.  Good evenin’, Mr. Samuel Bundy.  I wish ye a pleasant walk home, and hope ye may soon find a sweetheart clever enough to suit ye.  Ye’d best ax schoolmissus—she bain’t much more nor fifty-four, and I reckon she’s not one to go a-waitin’ in church-porch to look for sperrets—I’ll tell ye later on who I see on Midsummer Eve; but—I—think—I—know.”

Sam stood looking after her until she was out of sight, and then, drawing a deep breath, began to move slowly homewards.

“So that is the end!” he said to himself.  “And I thought she was terrible fond of me.  These maids—there bain’t no knowin’ where to have ’em!”

*   *   *   *   *

On the following Sunday the once tender lovers walked apart, and Sam invented no more pretexts for passing Martha’s home of a weekday evening as he had been wont to do, just for a glimpse of her in the doorway or at the window, or, as had not infrequently happened, standing accidentally by the gate.  On these occasions he had been used to invite her to walk with him “just so far as the top of the lane;” it was, indeed, during the course of one of these little strolls that the quarrel had taken place.  But now, though oddly enough just about that time of evening Martha was to be seen pretty often looking out of the window, or leaning against the doorpost, or even gazing absently up and down the lane from the garden gate, Sam Bundy passed that way no more.

But Martha’s family noticed that she came in from the expedition in a very bad humour.  Bob was a thick-headed young man, and he had not much to say for himself; and he had brought his pipe with him and puffed the smoke in Martha’s face and laughed at her for minding it; and, moreover, he had wanted to kiss her on parting, which she had thought very presumptuous on so short an acquaintance—Sam had walked with her for at least three Sundays before he had made any such attempt—altogether she was ruffled.

“I reckon ye did like Sam best,” remarked her sister, as Martha tossed her hat on to the bed.

The other started and answered angrily: “I may have liked him to begin wi’, but I fair hate him now.”

“There’s other chaps besides Sam and Bob,” retorted Martha.

“Who?” enquired the other eagerly, thinking her sister had made a new conquest.

“Oh, I don’t know—there’s lots of ’em about.  Do ye mind Granny’s silly old tale about goin’ to the church-porch on Midsummer Eve?”

“Of course I do.  Are ye thinkin’ o’ tryin’ it?”

Martha nodded.

“I’d like to find out summat for certain,” she said.

“Lard, I should be frightened to death to try it.  Ugh!  Fancy standin’ there among the graves all alone in the dark a-waitin’ for a sperret!  Maybe ye mightn’t like him when he did come.”

“That’s just what I be a-thinkin’,” said Martha, with a sigh.  “But I’d like to find out—it ’ud be a kind o’ satisfaction to know for sure, and not to keep on wonderin’ if it’s to be this one or that one.”

But Martha was obdurate.

Shortly after the clock struck eleven on the fateful night she crept softly out of the house, and sped noiselessly through the village, and up the lane until she came to the church.

It was a warm, still night, with a large, sultry moon swimming overhead, and outlining with silver the grey walls of the sacred building and the many tombstones which studded the green enclosure round it.

Martha stood still, catching her breath, then tremulously unlatched the gate and went up the flagged path.  She paused midway, raising her hand to her head:—

“Did Grandma say ‘In church-porch’ or ‘Nigh to church-porch’?  I can’t mind which.  The porch do seem to be awful dark—and ’twould be oncommon close inside.  There do seem to be scarce room for the sperrets to get past if you was to stand there, without they went through you.”

“I reckon it will do just as well if I stop here under tree,” said Martha decisively.  “I can see everything what goes in or out, and ’twouldn’t be so far to run if—” she glanced apprehensively at the porch again, measured the distance between it and the gate, and finally, moving swiftly towards the latter, propped it carefully open with a large stone.

“The road do run all downhill too,” she said to herself, feeling somewhat reassured as she glanced down the lane; she possessed a light pair of heels—even if a spirit were to pursue her she fancied she could distance it.

Lo! advancing with swift and noiseless tread up the flagged path was a figure, the outlines of which were strangely familiar to her.  As it approached nearer to her place of ambush the moonlight distinctly revealed a countenance which seemed to be that of Samuel Bundy.  Seemed to be I say, for it wore an expression strangely unlike that which Martha had been accustomed to see on the blunt and honest face of her former lover: an expression of stern gravity; the eyes were fixed, the mouth resolutely set, the face, moreover, was deadly pale in the moonlight, and what alarmed Martha more than anything else was the fact that the figure moved onward without making a sound.  Into the church-porch it passed, and was there engulfed by the darkness.

Martha’s heart was thumping like a sledgehammer; it was Sam sure enough—or rather Sam’s wraith, for surely no living thing could look or move in that ghostly fashion.

She leaned her head against the spice-scented cypress bark, and smiled to herself, though she still trembled, partly with awe, partly with pleasurable anticipation.  When the church clock chimed midnight, then might she confidently expect the wraith of her future husband to come gliding forth from the church into which it had so silently passed, and might gaze with certainty on the likeness of the man decreed to be the partner of her lot.  It was a solemn thought, but a joyful one; any contact with the supernatural must be awe-inspiring, but Martha was a bold girl, and eminently practical, and she passed the moments which must intervene before the reappearance of the vision in choosing the colour of her wedding gown.

All at once Martha’s heart ceased its violent beating, and appeared to stand still: a new and awful thought had come to her.  Had not her grandmother told her the dread fate which awaited the originals of those whose semblance passed into the church without again reappearing?  Her own words to Sam recurred to her: “Them as is to die within the year do seem to go into the church and don’t never come out again.”  Could it be possible that the apparition which had filled her with so much satisfaction a few moments before was the portent of poor Sam’s early death?

Unnerved by this terrible idea she rent the stillness with a series of muffled shrieks and sobs:—

“Oh, Sam, Sam!  Oh, dear Sam!  Oh, Sam, come out, come out!  Whatever shall I do?  Sam, come out!”

Could any spirit be endowed with such a pair of sturdy arms as those which were now thrown about her, or be capable of bestowing such resounding and fervent salutes as those which were presently rained on brow and cheeks?  Martha uttered one blood-curdling yell, and then stood still.

“Why, my pretty,” cried Sam’s voice, which sounded very real and comfortable, “what be all this shindy?  Have anybody been a-frightenin’ of ye?  Have that rascal Bob been up to any games?”

Still clutching her in a tight embrace, he looked fiercely round.

“Bob!” ejaculated Martha.  “Bob!  Why what should he—”  She broke off suddenly, adding with a wail of recurrent anguish: “Oh, Sam—oh, Sam, ye don’t know what I’ve a-seen this night!  There, my heart be fair broke.  I can never tell ’ee, but if ye knowed!”

“What!” gasped Martha, “’twas yourself—your own self as comed here—I—did think ’twas your sperret.  Why whatever made ye walk so queer?”

With a chuckle Sam uplifted a large broad foot protected only by a stocking.

“I thought, ye see,” he explained, “as that there silly Bob ’ud very like be up to some tricks—makin’ believe to appear to ye, or some such thing—so, thinks I to myself, I’ll just bide handy in porch and if he do try it on I’ll pounce out on him.”

“Oh,” said Martha, “why I don’t suppose he knows naught about nothing of the kind.”

“Ye didn’t tell him your grandma’s tale, then?” said Sam, with a note of incredulous delight in his voice.

“N—no,” said Martha—“I didn’t reckon ’twould interes’ him, d’ye see.  ’Twas different wi’ you.”

And then Sam laughed long and loud.

“P’r’aps I’ll have summat to say about that,” tittered Martha coyly.

“Ye can’t say nothin’ but the one thing,” returned Sam triumphantly.  “’Twouldn’t be lucky!”

Oh, dear, what can the matter be?
Johnny’s so long at the Fair!

Johnny’s father was busily chopping wood in the little shed at the back of the cottage, and Johnny himself sat on an upturned block with one chubby leg crossed over the other—a feat of some difficulty when one’s legs are short and one’s seat unsteady—superintending the parental labours, and revolving a certain project in his mind.  John the elder was a red-bearded giant of a man, with strongly marked features and great, sinewy, hairy arms, which were now fully revealed under his rolled up shirt-sleeves.  Johnny the younger, like his namesake of poetic fame, had a golden head “like a yellow mop in blow,” a cherub-face, big solemn blue eyes—very serious and thoughtful just now—and every other good point which may reasonably be looked for in a healthy little peasant four-year-old.

Observing, after these operations had been gone through some half-dozen times, that his father allowed them to pass unnoticed, Johnny heaved a deep sigh and made a remark on his own account.

“You do seem to be choppin’ a lot this evenin’, Dada.”

Johnny uncrossed his legs and sat rigid on the block, his eyes apparently ready to jump out of his head.  The father nodded good-naturedly, and took up his axe again.  The son threw out his hand after the manner employed by scholars desirous of attracting the teacher’s attention.

“Bide a bit!”—with a quaint assumption of authority—“I’ve got summat to show ’ee here.”

The chubby hand sought the pocket once more, the box was produced, and its contents displayed.  “I’ve got fruppence,” announced Johnny triumphantly.

“Have ’ee, now?” returned Reed kindly but dispassionately.  “Well done!  Where did ’ee get that?”

“Gran’ma gived it me.  Dada!”—here Johnny got off the block—“Dada, do ’ee take me to the fair to-morrow, and let me ’pend it.”

“Why, I never!” cried the father, half puzzled and half admiring.  “You be too little, Johnny—you’d be tired out afore the day was half done.”

“Want to go in the roundabouts, do ’ee?  That’s a tale.”  Here John Reed laughed, scratched his head, and contemplated his small sturdy son.  “I d’ ’low you’d enjoy the roundabouts, and the shows and that—jist about.  But we shan’t be home till late.  And whatever ’ud Mother say?  Ye’d best stop an’ take care of Mother, I reckon, Sonny.”

“Nay,” said Johnny junior.  “I be goin’ with ’ee; Mammy have got Puss!”

And thereupon the red-haired giant laughed long and loud, and the imp beside him knew the victory was his.

The sun was sinking when they came indoors, both looking extremely important, albeit somewhat sheepish, as became a pair of conspirators.

“There, Missus, I’ve cut ye enough wood to do ye for a week,” announced John, “an’ me and the little chap ’ull feed chicken jist now.”

“It’s time for Johnny to go to bed,” remarked the mother, gazing at him fondly, however.  “He’s best out of the way to-night—there do always seem to be sich a lot to be done afore Shroton.”

“Well,” agreed John falteringly, “p’r’aps he would be best abed, more particular as he has a mind to come wi’ us to-morrow.”

There was a chorus of surprise and disapproval, in the midst of which Johnny stood silent, gazing from one to the other with a solemn, resolute little face.  It was not until “Dada” himself had begun to show signs of wavering that the little fellow suddenly sat down on the ground and began to cry.

On the next morning the entire household was enlisted in the service of the youngest-born.  The father, coming upon Rosie as she was blacking his sturdy little Sunday boots, desired her to hand them over—he’d show her how to make ’em shine.  And shine they certainly did when he had done with them, for, though he could with difficulty squeeze two of his great fingers into them, he polished them with as much energy as would have sufficed for full-sized Wellingtons.

Meanwhile Maggie was sedulously brushing the smart new sailor-suit, and the little pilot-coat with its two rows of brass buttons, while Mrs. Reed was carefully winding round her fingers the yellow curls which looked so much better when allowed to cluster freely about brow and neck, but which were now persuaded to assume the corkscrew shape dear to the village mother’s heart.  She devoted particular time and care to the arrangement of a top-knot, which much resembled a small sausage-roll, and was poised immediately above Johnny’s right eye.  At last the only son of the house stood arrayed in all his glory, while the admiring family gathered round.

“See and keep your coat buttoned, Johnny,” observed Mrs. Reed anxiously; “and don’t ’ee go for to take off your muffler, not if you be ever so warm.”

Johnny rolled his eyes towards his mother over the white woollen folds—which, indeed, very nearly came up to them—and then looked down to where the fringed ends showed beneath the bottom of his coat.  The comforter was certainly uncomfortably warm, and the day was mild and sunny; but Johnny was in the mood to promise anything; therefore he gravely nodded.

Presently the sound of wheels was heard, and Jim Fry’s “trap” halted outside the little garden-gate.  Jim himself looked very smart in his best clothes; his hat being set on at a knowing angle over his well-sleeked locks; a nosegay about the size of a saucer in his button-hole.  There were flowers, too, at the horse’s ears, and the harness was polished to a nicety.

John Reed stared a little, winked solemnly at his wife, and finally agreed; and the girls came tripping down the path, Maggie blushing as she clambered into the cart, while Rosie, with many giggles, ascended on the other side.  Then little John waved his hand from his place beside his father, big John shouted “Right!” in a stentorian voice, Jim Fry cracked the whip, and they were off.

Oh, what a merry drive was that!  The old horse hammering along briskly, up the hills as well as down, and covering the ground at a prodigious rate, constantly overtaking other parties of pleasure-seekers who were proceeding more soberly, some on waggons, some on foot, some in little donkey carts.  Now the pretty village of Stourpaine was left behind; a few old folks came to their doors to look after the dashing equipage, and some children ran for a little way beside the horse; now they turned off by Steepleton, and for a while enjoyed the shade of the plantation farther on; and at last they drew near the scene of the Fair itself, being forced to proceed more slowly, for the road was well-nigh blocked with vehicles.

Johnny was at first disposed to be alarmed, and clutched his father’s hand somewhat tightly, but when the latter cheerily remarked that it was “rare sport” the little fellow strove to put away his fears, and to think it rare sport too.

“Hold hard!” cried his parent good-naturedly, when a more than usually ecstatic movement had well-nigh bonneted him.  “Sit still, my lad.  Where be climbin’ to, eh?”

“I’m lookin’ at the roundabouts,” chanted Johnny; “all the folks ridin’, and the harses goin’ up an’ down.  There’s Maggie and Jim—and Rosie a-ridin’ behind!  O-o-oh, Dada, do ’ee take I to ’em!”

Johnny’s eyes were growing rounder and rounder, and his little hot hand clutched his father’s finger with almost feverish eagerness, as he answered stoutly that he’d like to ride all by his own self.

“Well done!” cried Reed admiringly.  “You wouldn’t think the spirit of en,” he remarked to the red-faced proprietress of the merry-go-round as he paid the fare.  “Ye’d think a little chap same as this ’ud be afeared to go alone.  But no, not he.  ‘I’d like to ride all by my own self,’ says he, as cool as a cucumber—an’ him but just turned four years old.”

Well, they had two rides on the roundabout, and then they went on the switchback, and then they went in a swing, and then Reed bought a large flabby cake and a couple of very green apples, and while Johnny was munching these dainties they suddenly knocked up against an acquaintance whom his father had not seen for years.  There was much greeting and hand-shaking and questioning—the two deep voices booming over the child’s head, which was now beginning to swim a little, partly as a result of much agitation, and partly, perhaps, because those very green apples began to make him feel rather uncomfortable.

He hung more and more heavily on his father’s hand, and at last, his short legs giving way beneath him, he fairly dropped on the ground.

“Gettin’ tired, eh?” said Reed, glancing down at him.  “Come, we’ll look for Maggie and Rosie, and get ’em to take ’ee somewhere where ye can sit down and rest for a bit.”

They readily agreed to take charge of Johnny, and their father, turning to Jim Fry, informed him that he intended to return home on foot, as he had met an old friend, and when they had finished with the Fair they would probably go to the village for a glass or two.

“Right, sir, right,” returned Jim amiably.  “I’ll take care of the two young ladies, without Tom Davis there likes to get up at the back along of Rosie to keep the balance even.”

And here Jim grinned and winked knowingly.

“I d’ ’low he won’t have no objections,” returned Reed good-humouredly.  “But ye must see and take ’em home afore dark, Jim, same as ye did promise the missus.  And take good care o’ Johnny, maids, whatever ye do.”

Johnny had by this time stared his fill at the cocoanuts, and now came backing up against his father, turning suddenly as the latter was about to move away.

“I want to stop with Dada!” he cried.  “Let me go with you, Dada?”

“You’ll not keep the child out late, Father, will ye?” inquired Maggie anxiously.  “Ye’ll let him come home wi’ us.”

But he had already turned away.

Johnny was at first disposed to lament, but was somewhat consoled on being invited to try his luck with the cocoanuts; the sticks thrown by his small arm, however, fell wide of the mark, and presently his lip began to droop again and his eyes to roam wistfully,

“Why, you haven’t spent your money yet,” cried Rosie, catching him up.  “Come, we’ll go to the stalls and find summat to buy.”

After Johnny was perambulated up and down the stuffy arcade between the rows of shouting, excited vendors of toys, sweet-stuff, and crockery, after he had paused irresolutely in front of several booths, and screwed and unscrewed his precious little squeaking box any number of times, he found himself unable to part with his threepenny-bit, and finally agreed, with a sigh of satisfaction, to follow Rosie’s advice and keep it for another day.

The day was wearing on now, and he was becoming very tired.  He dragged at his sister’s skirts as he walked beside her, and his head was ever turned backwards over his shoulder in the hope of descrying “Dada”.  Big folk going past tumbled over him or pushed him to one side with curt admonitory remarks.  “Now, then, my man!”  “Out of the way, youngster!”  “Look where you are going, can’t you, child?”  Even Maggie and Rosie, who were themselves probably a little weary, began to lose patience with him, and when, under his despairing clutch, the gathers of the elder sister’s dress gave way, she shook him, not roughly, but irritably, and said sharply:—

“Bless me, Johnny, hold up a bit, can’t ’ee?  Jist see what ye’ve a-done to my new dress.”

Thereupon all Johnny’s stoicism gave way, and he began to cry piteously.  “I want Dada, I want Dada!”

Sure enough the stalwart form of the elder John was plainly discernible some fifty yards or so away.

“Let me go to him!” wailed the child.  “I want to go to Dada—I will go to Dada!”

And thrusting aside Maggie’s hand, he broke from the little group and ran at full speed towards the spot where his father was standing.

“Best let him go,” advised Jim, catching hold of Maggie as she was about to start in pursuit.  “He’ll be twice so happy wi’ he, and you know your father did say he was a-comin’ back to fetch en.”

“That’s true,” assented she.

As they stood watching the little figure making its way among the groups of people, Tom Davis came up in great excitement, with Rosie on his arm.

Maggie turned her head for a last look at Johnny, who was by this time but a few yards away from the tent near which John Reed was standing; and then, deciding in her own mind that he was now quite safe, hastened away with the others.

But Johnny was not quite safe: though so close to his father that two or three of the latter’s strides would have covered the space between them, he was not destined to reach his side that day.

“They’ve caught en, I see,” he said; “no fear now.  There, give over hollerin’, my boy; nobody wants to hurt ’ee.  If I hadn’t a-catched ’ee up ye’d ha’ been run over.”

Johnny gave one scared look at the kind red face, shook off the hand upon his shoulder, and then made off as fast as his tired little legs would carry him in the direction of the tent where he had last seen his father standing.  But alas! no father was to be seen, and the poor little fellow, wailing aloud, began a fruitless search for him amid the throng.

Here he crouched with his legs tucked beneath him, his cap far back on his dishevelled yellow locks, big tears hanging on his eyelashes, and one little forefinger between his lips—the picture of childish woe.

Every now and then he would fancy he descried the burly figure of his father advancing towards him, and would crane his head with an eager cry; but when the figure drew near it would always prove to be that of a stranger, and then Johnny would sob, and sink back again—a mere little heap of misery.

After long waiting and fruitless watching, Johnny’s little head began to droop, and his heavy lids closed gradually over his blue eyes; he sank backwards in the low chair, and presently forgot all his troubles in sleep.

It was quite dark when he was suddenly startled into consciousness by the pressure of a heavy hand upon his shoulder, and the sound of a rough voice in his ear.

“Hullo—what’s this?  What be you a-doin’ in my chair?”

“Who gave ’ee leave to go to sleep in my chair, ye rascal?” continued the new-comer, and in another moment the little fellow’s seat was lifted up, and his own small person was sent sprawling on the ground.

Uttering a choked wail, the child scrambled to his feet and gazed about him; all was strange, dark, and terrifying; undefined shapes loomed through the dusk; the lights flashing out here and there intensified the prevailing gloom; a babel of voices intermingled with shouts and laughter sounded in the distance.  Two or three unknown figures now drew near to him, and one stretched out its hand.

“Now, then, little man, who may you be?” said a thick voice which he had never heard before.

Johnny started back, gasped, and then, terror lending him wings, darted swiftly from the group and fled away into the darkness.

*   *   *   *   *

“Be hoped he’ll not keep out the child too long,” said Maggie as she mounted the cart.  “Mother ’ull be awful upset at our goin’ back wi’out him.”

“She will—jist about!” agreed Rosie gloomily, from the back seat.  “I’m sure I don’t know however he’ll manage to get en home, without he carries en all the way, and he’s a pretty good weight, Johnny is.”

“Somebody ’ull give ’em a lift, you mid be sure,” said optimistic Tom, from his place next Rosie.  “’Tis wonderful how things do fall out.  There now, d’ye see, I never looked for gettin’ a ride in sich pleasant company.”

And he leered at Rosie in so meaning a manner that she tossed her head and forgot all about her little brother.

Midnight had been proclaimed by the asthmatic cuckoo-clock, and one had struck before the sound of heavy footsteps on the path without awoke Maggie from the uneasy doze into which she had at length fallen.

“’Tis Father,” she cried, sitting up in her bed.  “Lard! how he do fumble wi’ the latch.  He do seem to be a bit drinky, and he can’t have been druv, after all.  He must ha’ carried Johnny all the way.  ’Tis a mercy if he haven’t dropped him.”

They could hear their mother unbolting the house door, her voice raised in querulous reproach.

“’Tis a shame for ’ee, John, to keep out the child to this time o’ night.”  Then a sudden cry.  “For mercy’s sake, what ha’ ye done wi’ him?  Where be he?”

“Where be what?” returned the father good-humouredly, if a little thickly.  “Johnny?  Why he be at home and abed hours ago.  I left en wi’ the maids.  They be come home, sure?”

“’Ees,” he repeated, “I left en wi’ the maids, and they must ha’ started long afore I.  I’ll tell ye all about it—I did meet Charl’ Pollen—”

“Father!” shrieked Maggie, “ye don’t mean to say ye haven’t got Johnny!  He wasn’t with us!  He ran off to you late in the afternoon.  I saw en close aside o’ you.  Lard save us, what’s to be done!  The child’s lost!”

“Lost!” repeated Reed, sobered in a minute.  “Lost!”

He rushed towards the girls, his face working, his eyes bloodshot.  “If you’ve been and lost that child I’ll be the death o’ you.”

His voice was harsh, absolutely unlike itself; he could scarcely articulate in his frenzy of rage and terror.

“Oh, Father, Father!” wailed Maggie, who had retreated to the farthest end of the room, and now stood gazing at him with eyes that seemed ready to start from her pallid face.  “Oh, Father, you did say you was a-comin’ back for en, and he was a-cryin’ for you, and when he catched sight o’ you he wouldn’t be kept back all us could say.  And we stood and watched en till he was close aside of ’ee.  How could we but think he was safe!”

“Ye shouldn’t ha’ let go of en for a minute,” thundered the father.  “I never set eyes on en, I tell ’ee.  My God! the child’s lost, sure enough!”

He sank down on the nearest chair, covering his face with his hands, while the women stood huddled together with ghastly faces, weeping and lamenting.  Suddenly he sprang up again, turning on them savagely:—

“How could ye be sich fools as to think I’d keep him out till this hour?  D’ye fancy I’d no thought for en?  D’ye really think I—I could go for to do anything as mid hurt en?  Lard, to think on it!  Keep them maids o’ yourn out of my sight, Missus, or upon my word I’ll be the death of ’em.”

“Let’s see,” she said tremulously, “what time was it when you see him last, maids?”

“Six o’clock, I think,” gasped Maggie.

“Six o’clock,” repeated Reed, dropping his voice suddenly to a despairing note.  “Six o’clock and it’s nigh upon two now!  That’s eight hours since he was seen or heard of.”

“Maybe he’s there yet,” cried the mother, still striving to be hopeful.  “Don’t let’s lose another moment, Father—let’s go and look for en straight off.  Maybe he’s crope into one o’ the tents and fell asleep, or maybe somebody’s found en and is a-taken care of en.  I don’t believe,” added the poor woman wistfully, “I don’t believe as any one could find it in their hearts for to hurt a little chap like him—so pretty as he did look too!  Oh, dear!”

Her face changed, and she caught her breath with a sudden gasp.  Her lip began to tremble, and she pressed her finger to it to still it.

“Oh, Mother,” cried Maggie and Rosie together, “ye don’t think as anybody ’ud want to steal en?”

“I don’t know, I’m sure,” she returned almost inarticulately; “there, maybe they wouldn’t, but they do tell sich tales, and Johnny did look sich a pictur’, ye know; we was a-sayin’ it ourselves.”

John Reed uttered such a heart-rending groan upon this that the girls, forgetful of their terror, ran towards him.

“Keep off, I say!” he cried savagely, springing from his chair.  “Keep off!—keep out of my sight—I don’t know what I mid do to you.”

“There, my dears,” interposed their mother, in a tremulous aside, “best not anger him.  He’s not himself, d’ye see.  Run upstairs and get your things on, and see if ye can rouse up any of the neighbours to come and help look for the child.”

The women-folk gazed at each other aghast, but before they could remonstrate he was gone.

*   *   *   *   *

The men had all paid a visit to the fair on one or other of the two days previous, and were discussing with some eagerness and occasional bursts of laughter the various frolics in which each had taken part, when they arrived at their goal.

Their task, unusual enough in itself, did not seem strange to them.  They were removing soil and rubbish from the recently discovered remains of a Roman villa.

Roman remains were common enough in that neighbourhood; antiquarians had even gloated over traces of still earlier times.  Thigh-bones, which were recognised to be of Danish origin, skulls of ancient Britons, had been found and treasured; there were undeniable traces, not far from this particular spot, of a hamlet once occupied by some almost prehistoric race.  No wonder, therefore, that the excavation of a mere Roman villa was an event comparatively unimportant!

Yet when the foremost workman reached the spot and looked down at the scene of his previous labours, he uttered a long, shrill whistle, and, turning to his comrades, exclaimed:—

“What’s up?” cried another, pressing forward in his turn.

The rest hastened after him, and soon all were bending forward looking into the pit, the depth of which varied from five to six feet.  What was it that had called forth their astonishment?  The ancient walls, which each day’s toil exposed more fully, had now become familiar to them; they had often noticed the lines of colour traced by some alien hand so many centuries before, yet still bright and distinct where the sunshine caught them: they were not prone to marvel at these things at any time, and certainly not now when the modern wonders at the Fair were still fresh in their memory.

“Why, how ever did he get there?” cried the first speaker, pointing downwards with his thumb as the long-dead proprietor of those ancient walls might once have pointed at some doomed gladiator.

There, amid the relics of a bygone civilisation, lay the chubby form of a little nineteenth-century child—an extremely modern little Briton in a sailor-suit, with a mop of yellow curls tumbling over his sleeping face.

On hearing the strange voices he sat up, and looked about him, rosy and dewy after his slumbers.  The night had been mild, and he had rolled himself up so tightly that he had contrived to keep warm.  He blinked in bewilderment at the bright sunshine and at the strange bearded faces.  Then, with returning consciousness, the thought which had been last present to his mind before sleep had overtaken him leaped back to it.

“I want Dada,” said Johnny.

“Why, how in the name o’ fortun’ did you get here?” cried one of the men, swinging himself over the side, and taking the child up in his arms.  “Have you been here all night?”

“Looks like it,” cried another.  “What’s your name, little man?”

“Johnny,” said the child.

“How did ye come here, eh?”

“Well, what a tale!  The little chap’s lost hisself, d’ye see, mates?  There’s somebody in trouble about this ’ere, you mid be sure!  Somebody’s lost en at the Fair.”

“Ah, he don’t look as if he belonged to any o’ the gipsy folk, or the shows, or sich as them,” said somebody.  “Seems as if he did belong to decent folks.  They be lookin’ for en at Shroton most like—we’d best take en back there.  He don’t belong to nobody about here, that’s plain.  Where d’ye live, Johnny?”

“Next door to Mrs. Short,” returned the child promptly.

“That’s tellin’ nothin’.  What’s the name o’ the place?”

Johnny, who was chary of speech at all times, and was besides slightly alarmed at being interrogated by so many strangers, returned no answer to this query, and announced instead loudly, and with a hint of not far distant tears in his voice, that he wanted “Dada”.

He hoisted up the child to one of his comrades, clambered himself to the higher level, and, taking him again in his arms, set off for the scene of the Fair, the others looking after him curiously for a moment or two, and then leisurely setting about their work.

Johnny did not say much during the transit; he sat very upright, staring about him with all his eyes in his anxiety to catch the first glimpse of his father.

As they entered the field where the Fair had taken place, and where were still many groups of busy people, a sudden outcry sounded from the neighbourhood of one of the large gipsy-vans which stood horsed and ready for further progress.  A great red-bearded man, with a white face and wild, bloodshot eyes, was struggling in the midst of the little crowd which had closed about him, while the proprietor of the van, a swarthy, thick-set fellow, was evidently denouncing him.

“That’s Dada!” cried Johnny eagerly.  “There he is!  What are they doing to en?  Why are they holdin’ en?  Dada!” he cried in a shrill scream.  “Dada!”

“’Tis him,” he cried brokenly.  “’Tis Johnny!  That’s him yonder,” and slipping from the loosened grasp of the hands which had been laid upon him, he staggered forward, paused, wavered, and then dropping to the ground burst into tears.

Johnny, having been set on his legs, ran gleefully to his father, and flung his arms about his neck; and John fondled him with one big trembling hand, and sobbed on, his broad shoulders heaving, the tears trickling through the brown fingers with which he sought to hide his face.

People who had been most ready to condemn him now gathered round, full of sympathy; even the policemen, fathers of families themselves, looked down with benign compassion.  Only the van-proprietor stood aloof, indignantly surveying the tattered collar of his own rusty jacket, which seemed, indeed, to have recently sustained severe handling.

“He was near the death o’ me, I know that,” he remarked.  “He’d no need to come assaultin’ and a-batterin’ of me, if he had a-lost his child.”