“There!” breathed Jot in relief, as his toes touched sod again, “I feel as if I’d been in prison and just got out.”

“Broken out—­that’s the way I feel.  I wish we could fasten the window again,” Old Tilly said thoughtfully.

Kent was rubbing his ankle ruefully.

“It was a joke on us, our mooning round that door all that time, and thinking we were trapped!”

“Oh, well, come on; it doesn’t matter, now we’re free again.”

“Come along—­here are our wheels all right,” Old Tilly said briskly.  “Let’s go down to that little bunch of white houses there under the hill, and pick out the one we want to stay over night in.”

“The one that wants us to stay in it, you mean!  Come on, then.”

It was already mid-afternoon.  The beautiful Sunday peace that broods over New England’s country places rested softly on new-mown fields and bits of pasture and woods.  The boys’ hearts were made tender by the service they had so unexpectedly attended, and as the beauty of the scene recalled again the home fields, they fell into silence.  A tiny, brown-coated bird tilted on a twig and sang to them as they passed.  The little throat throbbed and pulsated with eager melody.

Old Tilly listened to the song to its close, then swung round suddenly.  His face was like father’s when he got up from his knees at family prayers.

“That bird seems singing, ‘Holy, holy, holy,’” Old Tilly said softly.  “Can’t you hear?”

“Yes, I hear,” murmured Jot.

The little white house they picked out sat back from the highway in a nest of lilac bushes.  It reminded the boys a very little of home.

“Stop over night?  Away from home, be ye?  Why, yes, I guess me an’ pa can take you in.  One, two—­dear land! there’s three of ye, ain’t there?  Yes, yes, come right in!  I couldn’t turn three boys away—­not three!”

The sweet-faced old woman in the doorway held out both hands welcomingly.  She seemed to get at the history of the three young knights by some instinctive mind-reading of her own—­the boys themselves said so little.  It was the little old lady’s sweet voice that ran on without periods, piecing Old Tilly’s brief explanatory words together skillfully.

“Havin’ a holiday, be you?  I see.  Well, young folks has to have their outin’s.  When they git as old as me an’ pa, they’ll be all innin’s!” she ran on.  Suddenly she stooped and surveyed them with a placid attempt at sternness.  “I hope you’ve all be’n to meetin’?” she cried.

Jot’s face twisted oddly.

“Yes,” Old Tilly answered, subduedly, “we’ve been to church.”

“I thought so—­I thought so.  Now come in an’ see pa—­poor pa’ He was took again yesterday.  He’s frettin’ dretfully about the hay.  Pa—­”

Her voice went on ahead and heralded their coming.  “Here’s three boys come to stop over night with us—­three, pa.  You’re glad there’s three of ’em, ain’t you?  I knew you’d be.  When I’d counted ’em up, I didn’t hesitate any longer!  The littlest one looks a little mite like our Joey, pa—­only Joey was handsome,” she added innocently.