“Yes,” said Grandmamma, “they will certainly; and yet even two days seem an eternity just now.  You see how foolish and weak I am growing, Barbara.  I want every day to be over, and yet I cannot bear to have the days pass and to say to myself that the chances of any tidings are lessening and lessening.  Soon it will be two weeks—­it is already eight days.  When it was only two days it did not seem so hopeless.  But I must not keep you, Barbara.  How do you mean to get to Monkhaven?”

“Farmer Carson is to give me a lift as far as Brigslade, and then I can walk the rest,” said the sturdy old woman, “so good-day to you, ma’am, and, oh deary me, but I do hope there may be better news to hear when I come back on Friday,” and with a cordial shake of the hand from Grandmamma, Barbara turned to go.  But just then there came at the door a whining and scratching which made the old lady give a sigh of impatience.

“It is the dog again,” she said.  “He is so restless there is no keeping him quiet, and, though I am very fond of him, I really cannot bear the sight of him just now.  I do wish he were away.”

Grandmamma spoke so weariedly and seemed so nervous that Barbara felt more sorry for her than ever.  Suddenly an idea struck her.

“Would you let me take him with me, ma’am?” she said.  “He knows me so well that I should have no trouble with him, and he’d be nice company on the walk from Brigslade.”

Grandmamma hesitated, but only for a moment.

“Yes, take him, Barbara,” she said.  “He will be much happier with you, poor little dog.  And till I have my darlings again,—­and will that ever be, Barbara?—­I really cannot bear to see or hear him.  Yes, take him with you, poor little dog; and—­and—­keep him as long as you like—­unless—­unless there do come good news.”

And thus it came to pass that Toby set out on his travels with Barbara Twiss, while poor Grandmamma shrank down again into her arm-chair by the fire, and Grandpapa tried to imagine he was reading his newspaper as usual.

What did poor Toby think of it all?  His ideas had been very confused for some days, poor little dog.  He could not make out what had become of the children.  He sniffed about everywhere, once or twice barking with sudden delight when, coming upon some relic of his little master or mistress, such as Duke’s old garden hat or Pamela’s tiny parasol, he imagined for a moment or two that he had found them, only to creep off again with his tail between his legs in renewed disappointment when he discovered his mistake, all of which, it is easy to understand, had been very trying to poor Grandmamma, and no doubt to Toby himself.  He did not understand what he was scolded for when he certainly meant no harm; he could not make out why Dymock gave him little shoves out of the way and Biddy bade him sharply be quiet when he, naturally enough, yelped at this inconsiderate treatment.  And worst of all, when, after the most