He saw everything, and he pretended he saw nothing.  He picked up my father’s spectacles, and waltzed with the dogs whilst the old gentleman was blowing his nose.  When Martha broke down in hysterics (for which, it was not difficult to see, she would punish herself and us later on, with sulking and sandpaper), Dennis “brought her to” by an affectionate hugging, which, as she afterwards explained, seemed “that natteral” that she never realized its impropriety till it was twenty-four hours too late to remonstrate.

When my dear mother was calmer, and very anxious about our supper and beds, I ascertained from my father that the Woods were from home, and that Jem had gone down to the farm to sit for an hour or so with Charlie; so, pending the preparation of our fatted calf, Dennis and I went to bring both Jem and Charlie back for the night.

It was a dark, moonless night, only tempered by the reflections of furnace fires among the hills.  Dennis thought they were northern lights.  The lane was cool, and fresh and damp, and full of autumn scents of fading leaves, and toadstools, and Herb Robert and late Meadow Sweet.  And as we crossed the grass under the walnut-trees, I saw that the old school-room window was open to the evening air, and lighted from within.

I signalled silence to Dennis, and we crept up, as Jem and I had crept years ago to see the pale-faced relation hunting for the miser’s will in the tea-caddy.

In the old arm-chair sat Charlie, propped with cushions.  On one side of him Jem leant with elbows on the table, and on the other side sat Master Isaac, spectacles on nose.

The whole table was covered by a Map of the World, and Charlie’s high, eager voice came clearly out into the night.

“Isaac and I have marked every step they’ve gone, Jem, but we don’t think it would be lucky to make the back-mark over the Atlantic till they are quite safe Home.”

Dennis says, in his teasing way, he never believed in my “athletics” till he saw me leap in through that window.  He was not far behind.

“Jem!”

“Jack!”

When Jem released me and I looked round, Charlie was resting in Dennis O’Moore’s arms and gazing up in his own odd, abrupt, searching way into the Irish boy’s face.

“Isaac!” he half laughed, half sobbed:  “Dennis is afraid of hurting this poor rickety body of mine.  Come here, will you, and pinch me, or pull my hair, that I may be sure it isn’t all a dream!”

THE END.

* * * * *

RICHARD CLAY & SONS, LIMITED,
LONDON & BUNGAY.

The present Series of Mrs. Ewing’s Works is the only authorized, complete, and uniform Edition published.

It will consist of 18 volumes, Small Crown 8vo, at 2s. 6d. per vol., issued, as far as possible, in chronological order, and these will appear at the rate of two volumes every two months, so that the Series will be completed within 18 months.  The device of the cover was specially designed by a Friend of Mrs. Ewing.