"But, Darby, Aunt Catharine. What ever will she say? Darby!" cried Joan in distress.

Darby was creeping on all-fours over the springy gra.s.s, and did not mind her. Slowly, stealthily he went--near, nearer, and yet nearer the root of the beech tree with every movement of his lithe, wriggling body. He is now only a few feet from the squirrels, who seem not to notice the intruder. He puts out his hand. He almost touches the smallest member of the group, a bright-eyed, furry little fellow. Joan starts to her feet in excitement. Darby does exactly as he had planned--makes a sudden clutch at the coveted prize. The object of her desire is really within her reach, Joan believes, and she shouts aloud in her delight. There is a flash of bead-like eyes, a waving of plumy tails, a scurry of flying feet, a chorus of queer, chattering cries, and, lo, the squirrels have disappeared, some up one tree, some up another--all except one, the very one which Darby desired to possess, and it scampered along the pathway, seeming too frightened to know where it was going; and, without giving a thought to the Cochin eggs, to Aunt Catharine, or to probable consequences, away rushed Darby in hot pursuit, with Joan treading closely on his heels.

Soon the squirrel found refuge in a lofty pine where, most probably, some of its friends had their home, and the children halted to take breath. Just at that instant, however, a frisky young rabbit started from its hiding-place in a hole at their feet. Off it went, scampering over the fallen fir needles that were spread so thickly like a soft brown carpet over the ground. And away, too, Darby and Joan raced after it, as quickly as they could thread their way through the trees, following where in front the rabbit led the way, its stumpy whitish tail turned up like a beckoning signal-flag. Still they struggled and stumbled on and on, in and out, until they stopped for want of breath in what seemed the very heart of the wood. Their prey had escaped into the shelter of a burrow, and the hunters gazed blankly at the spot where it had disappeared. Then they turned to each other in discomfiture and disappointment. Afterwards they looked about them, and were filled with confusion and affright, for the pathway was nowhere to be seen.

"The eggs, Darby!" cried Joan, suddenly conscious, now that the play was played out, of what had been, what was, and what might be. "Let us go back diwectly and get Aunt Catharine's basket of eggs."

"Yes, of course, that's what we shall do; but don't be in such a hurry.

You only confuse a fellow," answered Darby, trying to speak lightly, although his lips were quivering. He had sought up and down, backwards, forwards, and roundabout, but still could see neither track nor footmark--just trees, tall trees everywhere, one seeming the exact counterpart of the other.

Joan, however, was quick to catch his expression of bewilderment, which so sadly belied his brave words, and she began to sob weakly. She always cried easily, and seemed sometimes to enjoy it; at least Darby thought so privately.

"Be quiet, can't you! There's nothing for you to cry about," he said, in a tone of easy a.s.surance; "at least not yet--not until after we get home," he added comically. "I do hope Aunt Catharine will be in the drawing-room, or out to dinner, or--or--something when we arrive. If she sees us like this, she'll be certain sure to put us to bed at once,"

continued Darby, with sad conviction, glancing anxiously at his soiled sailor suit, which a few hours before was white, his straw hat with the brim dangling by a thread; and, worst of all, at Joan's torn pinafore, scratched legs, and shoeless foot--for in the flurry and fervour of the chase one small slipper had somehow been left behind.

Joan still sobbed.

"Hush, Joan! don't cry any more, like a good girl," said the little lad soothingly. "We shall be sure to find the way out very soon now. We left the basket at the edge of the wood; I don't think any one will have taken it away. And when we get it, we shan't be hardly any time going down the hill. We'll slip in softly, softly, and find Auntie Alice first. We'll ask her to coax Aunt Catharine not to be too angry; and perhaps, if we tell her we're sorry, she'll not punish us very badly. I think we had better not say anything about forgetting this time; we'll just be sorry right off."

Joan ceased crying. She dabbed her eyes with the corner of her soiled pinafore until they smiled like violets new washed with dew; she wiped the trickling tear-drops from her smudgy China rose cheeks until they bloomed afresh.

Thus the brave boy soothed his small sister's terror, although his own heart was heavy with fear; for the farther they walked the deeper they seemed to go into the depths of the dark pine wood. And night was coming on. In daytime, even, Copsley Wood was a shadowy place; but now, when above the trees and beyond their margin twilight had fallen, it was indeed a dark and lonesome spot. All around the pines rose straight and tall, like gaunt giant forms flinging out long, skeleton arms eager to infold them in a cruel clasp. Strange and stealthy sounds from bird and beast came to their ears at intervals, while the unfamiliar music of rustling branches and whispering leaves filled the souls of these two little travellers with a feeling of awe and vague alarm. Nevertheless they kept moving on, on; now stumbling over a fallen branch, again shrinking in terror as a great soft owl flitted slowly by, or hooted solemnly right above their heads.

At length Joan cried out that she could not walk another step. A sharp stone had cut her poor little shoeless foot, and she was limping painfully. She sank down on a smooth tree-stump, and Darby sat beside her, allowing her to lean her drooping head against his shoulder.

"Are we lost, Darby?" she asked piteously. "Are we goin' to die here like the babes in the wood? And will the robins come in the mornin' and cover us up wif leaves?"

"No, no," answered Darby, shivering at the mere thought of such a hurried burial, yet trying to speak cheerfully in spite of the tears in his eyes, the lump in his throat. "When you are rested a bit we will go on again. If you can't walk, perhaps I could carry you--a short distance, anyway. Surely we shall soon find the path, or some one will come to look for us," he added, feeling as if at that moment any one, even Aunt Catharine herself, would be welcome.

"It's gettin' awful dark," sobbed Joan, in a choked, weak voice. "Why, we can't see even a single star."

"We'd be all right if we could see anything," replied the boy ruefully.

"Maybe the moon will shine soon; then we'll find our way," he added, still trying to cheer his little chum as best he could.

For a while they were silent. Joan was almost asleep, with her head still resting on Darby's breast. None but the creatures of the wild were near them; only the sounds of the night were in the air--those soft, mysterious voices that whisper to the listening soul of the spirit world which wraps so closely round the pure in heart.

But stay! Who dare disturb the sweetness of nature's symphony? Whose stealthy steps are those that steal so cautiously over the tell-tale twigs and withered bracken? What figures are they that crouch and slide from tree to tree, then pause within half a dozen yards of the wandered children, ready to pounce like cruel beasts upon their prey?

The shuffling noise attracted Darby's attention. He looked all about him, but observed nothing unusual. He peered into the gathering gloom, yet failed to see the ugly, red-haired man, the bold, black-browed woman who glared at them from behind a screen of hazel bushes. And again he settled himself comfortably on the moss-grown stump, and drew Joan's head into an easier position against his shoulder.

He thought she was asleep, and was nearly over himself, when suddenly she sat up and said eagerly,--

"Darby, I'se been finkin'. Don't you know in that nice hymn of ours--the one we singed to daddy the Sunday before he goed away--there's somefin'

about bein' 'guided by a star'? P'raps if we was to sing it now G.o.d would un'erstand, and send a star to show us the way out of the wood."

Darby hesitated.

"Well, I don't know; I'm not sure," he said at length. "Still, if you think singing would make you feel better we might try it," he yielded.

"Yes, we'll do a verse, anyway. It'll be cheerier than praying--not so much like as if we were going to bed. And it doesn't really matter which we do; G.o.d will be sure to know 'zactly what we mean. Now, are you ready? Come on!"

And there, in the depths of the forest that to these two babes was as desolate, dark, and drear as any of which they had heard in fairy tale or nursery rhyme, they raised their clear, tremulous voices in pathetic appeal to that unseen Presence whom from their cradles they had been taught to look upon as "our Father:"--

"From the eastern mountains Pressing on they come, Wise men in their wisdom, To His humble home; Stirred by deep devotion, Hasting from afar, Ever journeying onward, Guided by a star."

CHAPTER IV.

FAR, FAR AWAY!

"The leaves were reddening to their fall, 'Coo!' said the gray doves, 'coo!'

As they sunned themselves on the garden wall, And the swallows round them flew.

'Whither away, sweet swallows?

Coo!' said the gray doves, 'coo!'

'Far from this land of ice and snow To a sunny southern clime we go, Where the sky is warm and bright and gay: Come with us, away, away!'"

F. E. WEATHERLY.

Just as they paused on the last note Joan uttered a scream of delight.

"Look, Darby, look!" she cried, clutching at her brother's arm. "The star! the star! G.o.d has sended it soon, hasn't He? He must have been listenin' close by when we sang. Auntie Alice says He is every place at once."

"Where?" eagerly asked Darby, peering anxiously into the darkness, but looking in the wrong direction.

"There--right behind you," replied Joan, pointing with her finger. "It's comin' nearer and nearer. Don't you see it?"

Yes, sure enough there was moving slowly towards them, out of the shadows, a small bright light not unlike the twinkle of a tiny star. It came steadily on, then stopped, wavered, and was gone.

"Holloa! who's there? Speak up!" called out a loud, hearty voice.

Heavy footsteps followed the voice--footsteps that halted and stumbled among the gnarled tree-roots and spreading branches, yet kept straight on--and in another instant the kind, ruddy face of Mr. Grey looked down upon the children.

"The babes in the wood, by George!" he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed, at the same time stooping to peer into the small, eager faces which were so fearlessly upturned to meet his gaze. Then, when he made out who the forlorn-looking little objects really were, he gave expression to his astonishment in a long whistle, which frightened the birds in the trees, the rabbits within their burrows, and the wicked man and woman behind the hazel bushes, so that they cowered closer beneath the branches, wishing themselves well out of the way of Farmer Grey's stout blackthorn staff.

"Oh, it's you, Mr. Grey!" said Darby, with a curious catch in his voice of glad relief to find that the face bending over them with such kindly, quizzical scrutiny was not that of either gipsy, tramp, or poacher; for in spite of his lofty scorn of unknown dangers, he had grown terribly frightened for the possibilities which might lurk in the gloom of Copsley Wood.

"Ay, it's me, an' no mistake," replied Mr. Grey readily. "But I'm blessed if I knew ye at first in the dusk. 'They're tramps,' says I to myself, 'or gipsy weans.' But then, when I got a good look at ye, I saw that it was the little folks from Firgrove--Miss Turner's youngsters."

"We isn't Miss Turner's youngsters," struck in Joan stoutly; "we's daddy's chil'ens."

"Ho, ho! so that's the way the wind blows!" laughed Mr. Grey. "Ye're a pair o' pickles, anyway, an' no mistake! Who would think _ye_ were the little angels whose pretty speeches my missis was divertin' me with all the time I was at my tea! An' what may the two o' ye be doin' here in the dark, I should like to know?" he demanded, in his big, gruff voice.

"We were lost--quite lost," cried Joan, "just like the babes in the wood. If G.o.d hadn't sended you to find us, I s'pose robin redbreast would have comed by-and-by to cover us up wif leaves and twigs and fings."

"Tush!" and Mr. Grey laughed into the little girl's earnest face, although he was moved at the thought of the anxiety and distress these small creatures must have endured. "Lost! why, you're not more'n half a dozen yards off the highroad."