CHAPTER XV.

At last, finding the others did not come back to them, Poppy and Penelope got up and prepared to follow them. "I suppose they don't mean to go any farther in this direction," said Penelope. "Are my eyes all right, Poppy?"

Poppy assured her, truthfully, that no one would know she had shed a tear, and Esther and Angela, seated on a boulder waiting for them, saw no trace on either face, and suspected nothing of the storm that had come and gone since they parted.

"I am frantically hungry, aren't you?" called Penelope gaily, as they drew near.

They were all ravenous.

"Let's go back and have lunch at once," suggested Esther. "Did you get away from that horrid old thing pretty soon?"

They all understood who the 'horrid old thing' was without explanation, and none of them felt inclined to quarrel with the description.

"Oh yes, pretty soon," said Penelope, in an off-hand way, as she stooped to pick some sweet wild thyme.

"I shall never like her any more," said Angela emphatically. "She was so horrid to Esther."

"I wouldn't be taught by her for something," said Esther. "I don't envy you, Pen."

Pen felt a big sinking at her heart at the thought of her music lessons, and Miss Row's last words to her; but she made a brave effort to be cheerful. "She—she can be very nice," she said lamely.

"It's all very well for you to talk," said Angela, whose usually gentle spirit was greatly roused. "She didn't speak to you as she did to Esther."

Penelope gave Poppy a warning glance. "Well, she can be nice," she repeated, for want of something else to say. "Now come along, girls; do let's get back to 'the Castle' and have some lunch, and we'll forget all about Miss Row being so nasty. It is the Poppy's birthday, and we've got to think only of nice things. Now let's join hands and run down this slope."

With Poppy tightly grasped by her two eldest sisters, they flew over the ground as fast as their legs could go. Poppy, her feet scarcely touching the ground, shrieked with the greatest delight. Guard, who had been distractedly hovering between the two couples while their party was divided, barked and danced, and raced away and back again, as pleased as any of them.

They were quite exhausted before they reached 'the Castle,' and Poppy and Angela had to be allowed to sit down to recover their breath.

"I will go on and begin to get out the baskets," said Esther, "and unpack them by the time you come. You won't stay here very long, will you?"

Penelope was lying on her back gazing up at the blue sky and the swarms of tiny insects which hovered and darted between her and it. She was too comfortable to move, even to help get the lunch, so Esther and Guard went alone.

'The Castle,' the children's favourite play-place, was a group of huge boulders, like closely set rough pillars, so arranged by nature as to enclose a considerable space, like a tiny room, while outside was a kind of natural staircase leading to what they sometimes called 'upstairs,' and sometimes 'the roof,' which was formed of a large flat boulder, forming a natural roof, and keeping the interior dry and cosy save for the breezes which blew through the various openings, large and small, between the pillars.

It was in this centre, close to a pillar, and well out of sight, that the children had hidden their things; and here Esther came now, and pushing her arm through a narrow opening, groped about for the familiar baskets, and groped in vain.

"I thought we put them here," she said to herself, "but I must have come to the wrong opening." She went to another, and groped again in vain.

"Well," she said perplexed, and beginning to feel troubled, "I am certain it was in one of those. We didn't go round to the other side, I am sure we didn't. I'll go inside and look."

She went to what they called their secret entrance, and creeping in, stood up in the 'room' and looked about her. Not a basket was to be seen. The place was bare.

She scrambled out again more quickly than she had moved for a very long time. "Penelope," she shouted, "girls, quick—come—we've been—"

Then the thought suddenly came to her that perhaps the thieves were in hiding somewhere near, and were chuckling over her dismay, and she drew herself up abruptly. If a trick had been played them the perpetrators should not gloat over their discomfiture.

Guard was still sniffing eagerly about the spot when Esther walked with dignity back to the others, and, still with that fear of watching eyes on her, sat calmly down by them before she spoke; but when she did speak her tragic, mysterious voice and manner filled them all with awe and dismay.

"Girls, keep very quiet and listen to me. What do you think has happened! There are thieves about. They have stolen our baskets and the can—everything. There isn't a crumb left. Isn't it awful! Don't shriek or make a fuss. They may be watching us, and we won't let them see that we know, or—or care, will we?"

To the two younger ones it was an impossibility to suppress all signs. To them thieves meant robbers, bandits, a horde of savage creatures who might spring from anywhere, who, having consumed their provisions, might next run away with themselves. There were other troubles, too.

"And I am so hungry," cried Poppy. "I am starving. It isn't a bit like a birthday. I wish I hadn't had one."

Esther sat down by her and put her arms protectingly round her. Penelope looked fierce.

"We cannot put up with it," she cried indignantly. "It's such impertinence to take our things, such wickedness, such thievery. The children will be starved. What can we do? Where can we look? Who do you think can have done it? Come and search for them, shall we? Guard ought to be able to catch them. Perhaps some one has done it just to play us a trick."

"But suppose they are looking on and laughing," said Esther, who had a perfect horror of being made to look foolish. "And do you think it is safe? They must be horrid people, and might do anything if we found them out."

"I expect they have run away by now, if they stole the things," said wise Penelope, who could be very practical when she did come out of her dreamy state, "and they would laugh more if the baskets were only just hidden for a joke, and we went hungry because we wouldn't look for them."

Esther saw the sense of all that; but Angela repeated anxiously, "Do you think it is safe?"

"Yes, safe enough with Guard to protect us," said Penelope, rather impatiently. She was dreadfully hungry, and very disappointed and rather cross. They all got up and looked about them. Guard was at a little distance from them, sniffing excitedly about a big clump of furze and blackberry bushes.

"I believe they are there," cried Penelope.

"What, the thieves!" cried Angela, turning pale.

"Don't be silly, Angela," Penelope retorted crossly. "Can't you see you are frightening Poppy? I meant the baskets. If you are afraid, stay here, and I will go alone."

Angela looked 'squashed.' "Oh no," she stammered, "I—I will go too."

"We will all go," said Esther promptly. "Come along, children, don't let's be silly."

They went along hand in hand, trying hard to look unconcerned and brave, and succeeding fairly well. Guard, seeing them coming, ran back to them excitedly, then tore back to the bushes again, while they followed as fast as they could, peered in where he was thrusting his nose, and there, right in the middle of the furze brake, they saw the two baskets and the can, quite empty.

They were so hungry, so shocked, so disappointed, and so mortified by the trick that had been played them, they had hard work to keep back their tears. Angela and Poppy quite failed to. "I never knew such a horrid old birthday," sobbed Poppy; "and the patties looked so lovely, and the cake, and now we've got to wait till we go home."

Esther stood with the baskets in her hands, gazing at them with a troubled face. "I am glad we have these to take home with us," she said thoughtfully. "Girls, do you think we had better go straight back and tell what has happened, or—or shall we say nothing and let Cousin Charlotte and Anna think we have eaten it all up. Anna would be so awfully disappointed to think all the meat patties and the sandwiches she had made, and all the other things, had been eaten by thieves, and—and very likely we shouldn't be allowed to come out like this any more, and that would be dreadful."

The consternation on all faces when Esther began was almost ludicrous, and, indeed, it was no light matter to contemplate hours of hunger in that hungry air; but the thought of Cousin Charlotte's and Anna's disappointment, wrath, and alarm made them think of another side of the question.

"Will it be very long?" asked Poppy, in a piteous little voice. Esther took out her watch. "Four and a half hours to tea-time, I am afraid," she said reluctantly. She could not bear to doom her sisters to such a spell of waiting, it seemed really too dreadful; and so they all thought as they groaned aloud.

"Can I go home and pretend to Anna we want more lunch, we are so hungry to-day?" suggested Penelope.

"I am sure she would think we were ill, and make us all come home at once," said Esther, laughing, "and perhaps make us go to bed. She gave us such a lot we couldn't possibly be hungry if we ate it all."

"I have a penny," said Angela. "Shall we go and buy four tea-cakes at Mrs. Vercoe's? That will be one each, and better than nothing." Better than nothing indeed! One of Mrs. Vercoe's tea-cakes seemed then the most desirable thing in the world—except two.

They were all starting off when Angela exclaimed again, "Oh, and I've thought of something else. If I could creep into the garden without being seen, and get to the fowls' house, I believe I should find an egg in Fluffikin's nest."

"One raw egg between four wouldn't be much good," said Penelope hopelessly. "It isn't worth going for."

"But I didn't mean that, I didn't mean to eat it. I meant to take it to Mrs. Vercoe's, and sell it. I dare say she would give me a penny for it, and that would buy four more tea-cakes."

The suggestion was pronounced a noble one, and hailed with joy, and in another moment they were all running in the direction of home as fast as they could go.

"I feel like a thief myself," said Angela, as she crept out of the garden again, and rejoined them, a beautiful great egg in her hand.

"I wish I knew who stole our food," said Esther, "I should feel much happier. I don't like to tell, yet I don't think it is right to say nothing about it."

It was a knotty problem, and lasted them all the time they were skirting the end of the garden and crossing the moor, until they came out close to Mrs. Vercoe's shop.

What had not occurred to any of them was that there might be any one else in the shop, and least of all that it should be any one they knew. And this was exactly what did happen.

The four of them walking quickly in at the door, as into a haven of refuge reached at last, found themselves face to face with Cousin Charlotte.

It was so unexpected that for a moment they wavered, and nearly turned and fled. Colouring hotly, and looking the picture of confusion, they could think of nothing to do or say. But Cousin Charlotte, guessing nothing, only smiled and looked amused. Their dismay escaped her. "Well, chicks," she said, "are you managing to enjoy your holiday?"

"Yes—thank you," they stammered, with as much enthusiasm as they could muster.

"That's right. Don't overtire yourselves, but have a nice day. Now I must hurry home to my meal. I expect you have had yours by this time. Ah, I see," glancing at the empty baskets, "every crumb cleared. This is wonderful air for giving one an appetite," she remarked, turning to Mrs. Vercoe, and Mrs. Vercoe agreed; but the children felt that neither of them understood that fact as they did. It was almost torture to hear Cousin Charlotte say she was going home to her meal. Their longing to join her was almost more than they could bear. They were thankful, though, that she did not ask them how they had enjoyed their lunch, and what Anna's patties were like, or anything of that sort.

"Well, good-bye, dears, for the time. You won't be late, will you? It would be wise to have a nice rest before tea-time. Don't eat a lot of sweets now, will you? After your big lunch you should reserve yourselves for Anna's big tea. She will expect you to do justice to it." Then turning to Mrs. Vercoe again to explain, "It is this young lady's birthday, and Anna has invited them to tea with her, as I, unfortunately, have to be out."

"My!" exclaimed Mrs. Vercoe, looking at them with amused interest, "that will be nice. Good-day, miss," as Cousin Charlotte hurried away.

On the counter stood a large tray of buns and tea-cakes—'splits' as they call them in those parts. They were new, and the smell was perfectly delicious. Mrs. Vercoe, saying, "I wishes you many returns of the day, missie," was about to take one up and present it to Poppy, when she stayed her hand. "If you've just had your dinner you'd rather have a bit of sweety, I reckon."

"Oh no," gasped poor Poppy, in her desperation almost clutching at the tempting food. "I—I—thank you very much," she stammered. "I love plain buns. There's miffing I like so much." But when she had it she hesitated to begin to eat it; it seemed so selfish and greedy right there under those three pairs of hungry eyes. She longed to divide it, but did not like to. Esther, seeing her perplexity, came to her rescue. "Eat it, dear," she said softly, and Poppy never in her life was more glad to obey.

Angela stepped forward, colouring a little. "Please, I want four farthing tea-cakes," she said, as calmly as she could speak. She was painfully conscious of Mrs. Vercoe's look of surprise. "And—and please," she went on, growing painfully embarrassed, for it was not easy now it had come to the point, "do you want an egg, Mrs. Vercoe?"

Mrs. Vercoe looked even more surprised, but she only said civilly that she "could do with a dozen."

"I've only one at present," said Angela. "It is one my own hen laid, but you can have some more to-morrow morning."

"Very well, my dear," said amiable Mrs. Vercoe, "that will do. I'll put the one here until I get the rest. Shall I give you the money, missie, or would Miss Ashe prefer to have it in goods?"

"Oh please," said poor Angela, "this one is my own, and I should like— some more tea-cakes for it."

"Tea-cakes!" said Mrs. Vercoe in a bewildered voice. "Why, yes, my dear, of course; but—you'll excuse my asking, but—there isn't nothing the matter, is there?" she inquired confidentially, peering at them over her big glasses.

Then Esther stepped forward. "Yes, Mrs. Vercoe, there is. It's—it's nothing wrong that we've done, but you must promise not to say a word about it to anybody, please. It wouldn't have mattered quite so much, but now we have pretended to Cousin Charlotte that we enjoyed our lunch it would be dreadful. You will never say a word to any one, will you, Mrs. Vercoe?"

Mrs. Vercoe promised solemnly, whereupon the four tongues were unloosed, and the whole tale of the calamity and their hunger and disappointment was poured out. Mrs. Vercoe listened with the keenest interest, every now and then raising her two fat hands in amazement, then resting them again on her plump sides.

"Oh, my dears! oh, my dears!" she kept gasping. "What owdacious wickedness there do be in this world, to be sure. To think of it! Well, I never did! And if they ain't caught and punished it'll be no more nor less than a crying shame."

By the time they had finished she was leading them all into her little parlour, bent on making tea for them and preparing them a good meal; but Esther would not hear of it.

"Thank you very much," she said warmly, "but if we may have a few tea-cakes it will be quite enough. We only want something to prevent our feeling so hungry and faint and horrid till tea-time."

Mrs. Vercoe insisted, though, on their all having some milk to drink with their splits, on which she spread butter liberally, and an apple or so each to take away and munch on the moor. It was too soon to go home yet, they felt, yet their love for wandering had been somewhat dashed by the unpleasant experience of the morning. Somehow the moor did not seem the same while they felt that it held thieves too.

Guard, who had been given some biscuits and stale cake, looked up at them inquiringly, as much as to say, "Aren't we going home now?" Visions of his comfortable bed rose before him, and he felt very inclined for a noon-day nap. But the children told him he was not to go home yet, and he agreed, with his usual amiability, to follow where they led.

"I think we will go down by the river," said Esther. "It will be a change, and will seem different. It won't remind us so much of thieves."

So on they went, past Moor Cottage, where they saw through the curtains Cousin Charlotte at her solitary meal, and waved gaily to her; over the bridge and down on the fascinating river-bank where all sorts of treasures lurked, and the roots of the trees, rising out of the soft earth, formed steps and seats and balustrades and all sorts of things.

"I think we won't go so very far," said Esther, looking at her watch. "It is two o'clock now, and I think we might go home at half-past three. Let's sit down here, shall we?"

"Shall we just go a teeny tiny way further?" pleaded Angela. "There is a beautiful place a little way further on, a dear little cosy, cubby corner where we should be shut in, and as comfy as possible. Shall we, Esther?"

Esther nodded, and on they went again. Guard, as though he knew what they had been saying, ran on in front, making for the very spot.

"He couldn't have understood what I said could he?" asked Angela eagerly, "but he has gone into the very place."

"And seems inclined to stay there," said Penelope. She whistled once or twice, but the usually obedient Guard did not appear.

"I wonder what he is doing?" said Angela, growing anxious at once, as she always did. "I will run on and see," and, no one stopping her, she went.