"I don't know. I never thought of that," she said. "But I daresay there's one that goes to not far off from there. And Mick would never catch us then, would he, Tim? We'd go so fast, wouldn't we?"

"They don't go that fast--not ca.n.a.l boats," replied Tim. "Still I don't think as Mick'd ever think of looking for us there. That'd be the best of it."

But just then the rough voice of Mick himself was heard calling to them to come back; for they had wandered to some little distance from the other children, who were quarrelling and shouting near the vans.

"Come back you brats, will ye?" he roared. And the poor little things, like frightened sheep, followed by Tim, hurried back. Pamela shuddered at the sound of their jailor's voice in a way the boy could not bear to see. Mick had never yet actually struck her or her brother so as to hurt them; but Tim well knew that any day it might come to that.

"And a blow from his heavy hand--such a blow as he's given me many a time when he's been tipsy--would go near to killing them tender sort o'

fairy-like critturs," said the boy to himself, shuddering in his turn.

"He's been extra sober for a good bit, but onst he gets to the fair there's no saying."

And over and over again, as he was falling asleep, he asked himself what could be done,--how it would be possible to make their escape? Somehow the sight of the ca.n.a.l had roused a little hope in him, though he did not yet see how it could be turned to purpose.

"If we keeps it in sight, I'll see if I can't get near hand it some day and have a look at the boats, if there's any pa.s.sing. Maybe there'd be some coming from where the fair is. And if there was any folk like them as was so good to me that time, they'd be the right sort for to help us."

And poor Tim had a most beautiful dream that night. He thought he himself and Duke and Pamela were sailing down a lovely stream in a boat shining like silver, and with sails of white striped with red and blue and gold, like the frock Diana was tr.i.m.m.i.n.g for Pamela. They went so fast it was more like flying than sailing, and all of a sudden they met another boat in which were a lady and gentleman, whom he somehow knew at once were the Grandpapa and Grandmamma of the children's talk, though they were dressed so grandly in crimson robes, and with golden crowns on their heads like kings and queens, that he was frightened to speak to them; for he had nothing on but his ragged clothes. And just as Duke and Pamela were rushing towards them with joy, and he was turning away ashamed and miserable, wiping his tears with his jacket sleeve, a soft voice called to him not to be afraid but to come forward too. And looking up he saw a figure hovering over him, all white and shining like an angel. But when he looked at the face--though it was so beautiful--he knew he had seen it before. It was that of his poor mother; he knew at once it was she, though in life he could only remember her wan and worn and often weeping.

"Take courage, my boy--a new life is beginning for you. Have no fear."

And then, just as it seemed to him that little Pamela turned round, holding out her hand to lead him forward, he woke!

But his dream left a hopeful feeling in his heart. It was still very early morning and all his companions were asleep. Tim got up and very quietly crept out of the sort of one-sided tent, made by drawing a sail-cloth downwards from the top of the van, where he and the other boys slept. He walked a little way over the rough moor, for there was no road, scarcely even a track, and looked down to where, in the clear thin morning light, the ca.n.a.l lay glittering below. Then he gazed over the waste in front. Which way would they be going? Would they skirt the ca.n.a.l more closely or branch off and strike away from it? Tim could not tell. But he resolved to keep his eyes and ears open and to find out.

All that day the gipsy vans jolted along the rough cart-track across the moor. They halted as usual at mid-day--but Tim could not get to speak to the twins at all. And then the caravan started again and went rumbling on till much later than usual, for, as Tim overheard from the gipsies'

conversation, they were eager now to get to Crookford, where the fair was to be, as quickly as possible. When they at last stopped for the night it was almost dark; but the boy crept close up to the entrance of the waggon where he knew the children to be, and hid himself at the side, and, as he expected, the two little figures came timidly forward.

"Diana," they said softly, and he heard the girl answer not unkindly, but coldly, as was her way.

"Well, what now?"

"Mayn't us come out a little bit, even if it is dark? Us is so tired of being in here all day."

"And my head's aching," added Pamela.

Diana hesitated. A small fine rain--or perhaps it was only mist--was beginning to fall; but in spite of that she would probably have let them out a little had not Mick just then come forward.

"They want out a bit," she said. "They're tired like with being mewed up in there all day and never a breath of air--no wonder," and she made as if she were going to lift Pamela down the steps.

"Are you crazed, girl?" said the gipsy, pushing her back. "To let them out now in the chill of the evening, and it raining too--to have them catch their deaths of cold just as I've some chance of making up for all the trouble they've cost me. Fool that I was to be bothered with them.

But you're not a-going to spoil all now--that I can tell ye."

Diana looked at him without speaking. She was not at all in the habit of giving in to him, but she knew that a quarrel terrified the children.

She felt too, as she lifted her dark face to the clouded sky, that it was really raining, and she reflected that there might be truth in what Mick said so rudely.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "THEY WANT OUT A BIT," SHE SAID. "THEY'RE TIRED LIKE WITH BEING MEWED UP IN THERE ALL DAY AND NEVER A BREATH OF AIR--NO WONDER."--p. 132.]

"I think it is too cold and damp for you," she said turning to the door where the two little white faces were looking out piteously. "Never mind," she added in a lower tone, "I'll come back in a minute, and we'll open the window to let some air in, and then I'll sing you to sleep."

Tim could scarcely believe his ears to hear the rough harsh Diana speaking so gently.

"If _she'd_ help us," he thought to himself, "there'd be some chance then."

But he remained quite still, crouching in the shelter of the van--almost indeed under it--he was so anxious to hear more of Mick's plans if he could, for he noticed that the gipsy hung about while the girl was speaking to the children, as if he had something to say to her unheard by them.

They were so frightened of him that they drew back into the dark recesses of the van, and when they were no longer to be seen, Mick pulled Diana's sleeve to attract her attention.

"Just you listen to me, girl, will ye?" he said. "I'll stand none of your nonsense--thinking to queen it over us all. Now just listen to me."

Diana shook his hand off her arm.

"I'll listen if you'll speak civil, Mick," she said. "What is it you've got to say?"

She spoke quietly but sternly, and he seemed frightened. He had evidently been drinking more than of late, and Tim shuddered at the thought of what might happen if he were to get into one of his regular tipsy fits while the children were still there.

"It's along o' them childer," said Mick, though less roughly now.

"You're a-spoiling of them, and I won't have it. To-morrow evening'll see us at Crookford, and the day after they're to be took to the Signor.

Their looks'll please him--I'm not afeard for that; but I've gave him to understand that they're well broke in, and there'll be no trouble in teaching them the tricks and singin' and dancin' and all that. And he's to give me a good sum down and a share of the profits. And if he's not pleased and they're turned back on my hands--well, it'll be _your_ doing--that I can tell you, and you shall pay for it. So there--you know my mind."

He had worked himself up into rage and excitement again while he spoke, but Diana did not seem to care.

"What do you know of the man? will he be good to them?" she said coolly.

Mick gave a sneering laugh.

"He won't starve them nor beat them so as to spoil their pretty looks,"

he said. "They'll have to do what they're told, and learn quick what they've got to learn. You don't suppose childer like that 'ull pay for their keep if they're to be made princes and princesses of?"

"Then what did you steal them for? You do nothing but grumble about them now you've got them--why didn't you, any way, take them home after a bit and get something for your pains?"

"I thought o' doing so at the first," said Mick sulkily, as if forced to speak in spite of himself. "But they're sharper nor I thought for. No knowing what they'd ha' told. And when Johnny Vyse came by and told o'

the fair, and the Signor sure to be ready to take 'em and pay straight for 'em, I see'd no use in running my head into a noose by taking 'em back and getting took myself for my pains. I've had enough o' that sort o' thing, as you might know."

"Let _me_ take them home, then," said Diana suddenly. "I'll manage so as no blame shall fall on you--no one shall hear anything about you. And for myself I don't care. I'd almost as lief be in prison as not sometimes."

Mick stared at her.

"Are ye a-going out of yer mind?" he said, "or d'ye think I am? After all the trouble I've had with the brats, is it likely I'll send 'em home and lose all? It's too late now to try for a reward; they're sharp enough to tell they could have been took home long ago. But if the Signor isn't square with me, I may make something that way too--I can tell on _him_ maybe. But I'll take care to get my reward and be out o'

the way first. I'm not such a fool as you took me for after all, eh? And if you see what's for your good you'll do your best to help me, and you'll find I'll not forget you. One way or another I'm pretty sure to make a tidy thing of them."

Diana turned away, and for a moment or two there was silence. Tim's heart beat so fast he almost felt as if the gipsies would hear it. He could not see Diana's face, but he trembled with fear lest Mick's bribes should win her over. And when her words came it seemed as if his fears were to be fulfilled.

"You _are_ a sharp one, Mick, and no mistake," she said, with a strange hard laugh. The gipsy was too muddled in his head to notice anything peculiar in her tone, and he took her answer for a consent.

"That's right. I thought ye'd hear reason," he said. And then he lurched off to his own quarters.

Diana stood where she was for a moment. Suddenly she raised her hands to her face, and Tim fancied he heard a smothered sob. Without stopping to think what he was risking, the boy crept out of the shadow where he had been hidden, and caught hold of her skirts just as she was turning to mount into the van where the children were.