How can I describe to you that coming home?  If I could take you back with me some thirty years or so and let you hear it as I did then—­direct from the lips of a very old lady and gentleman, who still spoke to each other as “brother” and “sister,” whose white hair was of the soft silvery kind which one sees at a glance was once flaxen—­oh how much more interesting it would be, and how much better it would be told!  But that cannot be.  My dear old friends long ago told the story of their childish adventure for the last time; though I am very sure nothing would please them better than to know it had helped to amuse for an hour or two some of the Marmadukes and Pamelas of to-day.  So I will do my best.

It was a long stretch for the little legs to Brigslade; without Tim I doubt if poor old Mrs. Twiss and Toby would have got them there.  But the boy was not to be tired; his strength seemed “like the strength of ten” Tims, thanks to the happy hopes with which his heart was filled.  He carried Pamela and even Duke turn about on his back, he told stories and sang songs to make them forget their aching legs and smarting feet.  And fortunately there still remained enough home-made cake and currant wine for every one to have a little refreshment, especially as Tim found a beautifully clear spring of water to mix with the wine when the children complained of thirst.

They got to the cross-roads before Farmer Carson, for Barbara was one of those sensible people who always take time by the forelock; so they rested there till the old gray mare came jogging up, and her master, on the look-out for one old woman, but not for a party of four—­five I should say, counting Toby—­could not believe his eyes, and scarcely his ears, when Mrs. Twiss told him the whole story.  How they all got into the spring-cart I couldn’t explain, but they did somehow, and the mare did not seem to mind it at all.  And at last, late on that lovely early summer evening, Farmer Carson drew up in the lane at the back of the house; and, after helping the whole party out, drove off with a hearty Good-night, and hopes that they’d find the old gentleman and lady in good health, and able to bear the happy surprise.

It must be broken gently to them; and how to do this had been on Barbara’s mind all the time they had been in the cart, for up till then she had been able to think of nothing but how to get the children along.  They, of course—­except perhaps that they were too tired for any more excitement—­would have been for running straight in with joyful cries.  But they were so subdued by fatigue that their old friend found no difficulty in persuading them to sit down quietly by the hedge, guarded by Tim, while she and Toby went in to prepare the way.

“For you know, my dearies, your poor Grandmamma has not been well and the start might be bad for her,” she explained.

“But you’re sure Grandmamma isn’t dead?” said poor Pamela, looking up piteously in Barbara’s face.  “Duke was afraid she might be if us didn’t come soon.”