Grandfer's Wonderful Garden, by Eleanora H. Stooke

The startled question came from a little dark-eyed, pale-faced boy of about ten years of age, who was making the journey from Paddington to Exeter by the fastest train which runs. He occupied a corner seat in a third-class compartment, his only companions being an elderly gentleman and a young soldier at the other end of the compartment. It was the young soldier who answered him.

"No, sonny," he said, smiling; "it's all right, I assure you. I've been over this line many times, and the train always puts on speed about here."

He moved along the carriage as he spoke, and took the place opposite the little boy. He was quite a lad himself, barely twenty, but tall and strongly made, with a bronzed complexion and very blue eyes. He peered out of the window for a minute into the mist—it was a dull November day—then gave his attention to the little boy again.

"Oh, no!" the little boy replied. "My father died years ago. That was the master of—of the Institution where I've been staying since—since my mother was killed. She was killed in the Zeppelin raid last month. She—she—"

He broke off with a choking sob, whilst a tear rolled down his cheek. He brushed the tear away with the back of his hand, and bit his quivering lip.

"Oh, I am sorry!" exclaimed the young soldier. "I've a mother myself, and I know what I should feel—" He stopped abruptly and turned again to the window. "Poor kiddie!" he muttered to himself.

"What's your name?" he asked, after a brief silence, looking at the little boy again.

"William Brown. I was called after my father, and he was called after his father. Mother always called me Billy."

"I like the name Billy," declared the young soldier. "My name's Tom—Tom Turpin. I've got leave from 'somewhere in France' for a few days, and am on my way home—that's a farm some miles from Exeter. My father's a farmer. I was to have been a farmer too but the year after I left school on came the war, and I enlisted right away in the Devons. I've been in several engagements already, and so far have come off without so much as a scratch."

"I am," he said simply, "and more grateful to God than I can express. It would be a blow to my parents if anything happened to me—they not having another child; but they'd bear it bravely if it came to them, knowing it was for the best."

"Oh, how could it be for the best?" cried Billy. "Was it for the best that my mother was killed? I can't think that!"

"Not now, perhaps, but you may some day—though perhaps that day won't be till you see God face to face and understand—oh, a lot of things that are just one big mystery now!"

The young soldier looked at Billy very kindly, with a world of sympathy in his clear blue eyes. When he spoke again it was to say—

"If I live to see the end of the war I shall most likely lay aside the sword for the plough, for I love everything to do with the country—from being country born and bred, I suppose. You're town-bred, aren't you?"

"Yes," assented Billy, "I've always lived in London; but my father came from Devonshire, and now I'm to live in Devonshire, too."

"Yes, with my grandfather—my father's father. He's going to meet me at Exeter. I've never seen him, and I've been wondering what I shall do if I can't find him."

"Oh, he'll find you, I expect. But don't worry—it is always a bad plan to go to meet trouble. We shall find your grandfather all right, I've no doubt. Have you any idea what he's like?"

"No. I think he must be kind, for he used to write to mother sometimes and send her money—I suppose he knew she was very poor. And he'd always tell mother not to mention the money when she wrote—because, he said, he particularly didn't wish to be thanked."

The train was swaying less now, and Billy was no longer in fear that it was running away. He grew very confidential with Tom Turpin. By-and-by he spoke of the Zeppelin raid again.

"I don't remember much about it," he said. "It seems now just like a dream—a very bad dream. It was in the night, you see. I didn't know at the time that mother was killed, because I was stunned. I didn't know anything till I woke up in the hospital. I thought mother might be there, too, but she wasn't—she was dead. Then they took me to the Institution—that's the workhouse—and, afterwards, I told them about grandfather, and now—"

"And now I hope your troubles are nearly over," broke in the young soldier. "Come, cheer up! By the way, have you any sisters or brothers?"

Billy shook his head. "There was only mother and me," he replied with a stifled sob.

The mist was lifting slightly, so that they could see they were approaching beautifully wooded country. Tom Turpin's eyes smiled as they noted this.

"Nearing home!" he murmured to himself. Then, hearing the little boy sigh, he said, "You're nearing home, too, and I hope it's going to be a very happy home indeed."

The young soldier was silent for several minutes, evidently not quite knowing what to say.

"Look here," he said at length, "there's just one thing I should like to ask you. Are you a Christian? Do you believe in Jesus Christ?"

"Well, then, you ought to know that you're only separated from your mother for a time. 'The gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord.' You'll be with your mother through all Eternity."

Billy looked at Tom Turpin with a brightening countenance. Why had he not thought of this before?

"Thought you had!" said Tom. "Ah! Here's actually a gleam of sunshine, and very welcome it is, too. We shall soon reach Exeter now! You stick by me till you see your grandfather."

This Billy was very glad to do. When, the train having slackened speed gradually and stopped, he and Tom Turpin alighted on the platform at Exeter, he kept close to his new-found friend, whilst he looked about him anxiously. There were not a great many people on the platform, and in a minute he noticed a middle-sized man of about sixty, with a ruddy, good-tempered countenance and grizzled hair, who was clad in corduroy breeches and thick leggings, going from carriage to carriage, apparently in search of someone. The instant Tom Turpin caught sight of this individual he stepped up to him and clapped him on the shoulder, whilst he exclaimed—

The ruddy-faced man turned quickly, then caught the young soldier's hand and wrung it.

"Master Tom!" he cried, evidently delighted. "Ah, how glad your parents will be!"

"No, sir. I'm here to meet my grandson—my dead son's little boy—who's just lost his mother, poor child!"

The ruddy-faced man gazed at the boy earnestly a minute, then gave a satisfied nod.

He took one of the little boy's hands in his work-hardened palm, and pressed it affectionately.

"Well, I never!" exclaimed Tom Turpin. "Now, why didn't I guess who he was? But he didn't say you lived at Ashleigh! And there are so many Browns! Why, we've travelled down from Paddington together and got quite friendly. And, now, how are you going to get home—by train?"

"Oh, I see! Well, I'm going by train—shall be home before you most likely. Good-bye, both of you! See you again, Billy!"

He and his grandfather watched the alert khaki-clad figure run up the stairs to get to another platform, then they looked for and found Billy's luggage—a box which William Brown shouldered quite easily. Three minutes later found them outside the station.

Jenny was a big white donkey, harnessed to a smart little market cart. She was very fat and very well groomed, and seemed, Billy thought, to understand what was said, for she turned her head slowly, and, having given her master a shrewd glance, fastened her gaze on his companion.

"We're going now, my beauty," William Brown told her, as he placed Billy's box in the back of the cart. "She doesn't like boys," he explained; "they tease her."

"I promise I won't!" exclaimed Billy. "What a fine donkey she is! I never saw such a large one before. Please, may I stroke her, Grandfather?"

Billy spoke to the donkey softly, and patted her on the side. To his grandfather's surprise Jenny stood quite still, and allowed herself to be caressed.

"She knows I won't hurt her," the little boy said. "What a long, grave face she has! And how thoughtful she looks! I am sure she is very wise."

"Aye, that she is!" William Brown agreed, taking the reins in his hand and climbing into the market cart. "Get in, Billy! The afternoons are short now, and we've nigh seven miles to drive. As it is it'll be dark before we get home. If we're late for tea the Missus will have a word to say about it. Here, give me your hand!"

Billy obeyed. The next moment found him seated by his grandfather's side, a rug thrown across his knees. Jenny gave a toss of her head and a little pleased snort, then started for home.

CHAPTER II.

THE JOURNEY'S END.

BILLY sat silent and observant by his grandfather's side as he made his first journey through Exeter. The rain had come on again in a soft drizzle; but the streets were full of people, for it was market day. They passed the market and drove into High Street, the principal street, which surprised Billy by being so narrow and old; and a quarter of an hour later they had turned their backs on the city, and Jenny, who had been plodding along at a walk, suddenly began to trot.

"I wouldn't change her for the best pony in Devonshire!" he declared. "I had her as a foal, and broke her in myself. You'll have to learn to drive her, Billy."

William Brown smiled, then sighed whilst he brushed his hand across his eyes, which had suddenly become dim.

"I'm thinking of your father," he said, as the little boy looked at him inquiringly; "you're like what he was at your age, except that you're delicate looking and he was the picture of health. I'm real glad to see you, Billy, but I wish your poor mother'd come with you. Often I've wanted to invite you both to visit us, but the Missus don't take much to strangers, and—well, I let the time slip by—" He broke off, a regretful, troubled expression on his good-natured countenance.

The little boy looked curious. He knew that his father's mother had died when his father had been a baby, and that his father had had a stepmother, but he had been told nothing about his grandfather's second wife.

"But you must try to please her and obey her as much as though she was," William Brown said quickly.

"She was a widow when I married her, with one little girl," his grandfather explained. "That little girl's the wife of John Dingle, the postmaster now—they keep the village shop. They've two children—Harold, about your age, and poor little May."

"Because she's rather wanting here," William Brown said, tapping his forehead meaningly; "not silly exactly, but—well, you'll see for yourself. Cut along, Jenny!"

There was no need to tell Jenny that. Fast and faster she trotted. By-and-by her master pulled her up, descended, and lit the lamps of the market cart. A minute later they were off again.

"I didn't know a donkey could go so well!" cried Billy, who was enjoying this new experience exceedingly.

"She's thinking of her supper," laughed his grandfather. "She'll have a good feed as soon as she gets home, and she knows it. Are you keeping warm, my boy?"

"Oh, yes, indeed, Grandfather! And I don't mind the rain at all! It's so soft! And so's the wind! Have we much further to go?"

"No. If it wasn't so misty and nearly dark you'd be able to have a good view of the Teign Valley from here. Ashleigh's in the Teign Valley, you know; but my little place—Rowley Cottage—is a mile and a half from Ashleigh Station. We shall soon be home now."

Ten minutes or so later the donkey came to a sudden stop before a field-gate in a narrow road.

"Here we are!" William Brown said, getting down and opening the gate; whereupon Jenny passed through the gateway, and began the descent of a hill.

"Stay where you are!" he commanded. "I'm going to lead Jenny down—there's a cart track through the field by the hedge which leads right into our yard. Hold tight!"

Billy, who was secretly rather nervous, did hold tight. Daylight had quite failed now, but, looking far down into what seemed dense darkness, he saw a light. As the market cart proceeded, every now and again jolting over a stone, he held his breath, fearing that it would upset or that Jenny would stumble and fall. But no accident happened. The yard was reached in safety, and the donkey came to a standstill before an open door through which a light was shining from the kitchen within.

"Here we are!" cried William Brown. "Now then, Billy, my boy!" He lifted his grandson down from the market cart, and turned to pat a sheep dog which had come out of the house.

"This is Scout," he said; "I leave him in charge here on market days when I go to Exeter. Don't be afraid of him—he won't hurt you."

Scout was sniffing Billy's legs. The little boy spoke to him, calling him by name, then extended his hand to him fearlessly. The dog sniffed the hand and licked it. At that moment a woman appeared in the doorway.

"Very sorry, my dear," William Brown answered; "I thought we were in good time—the train wasn't late."

Billy obeyed, and found himself in a large, comfortable kitchen, facing his grandfather's wife. She was a tall, handsome woman who did not look more than fifty, though she was actually much older. She smiled as she shook hands with Billy, and kissed him, but the smile was only on her lips, whilst her eyes did not soften. Somehow she gave him the impression that he was not altogether welcome.

"You can call me 'Granny' as my daughter's children do," she told him. "I've two grandchildren—that's May, the younger of them."

Billy's eyes followed the direction of her pointing finger, and saw a little girl seated on a wooden stool near the fire, into which she was gazing.

The child rose and came to her. She was a beautiful little creature of about eight years old, with a fair complexion, fair curly hair, and eyes so deeply blue that they looked quite purple.

"This boy is going to live with your grandfather and me," her grandmother said; "his name's Billy. Will you remember?"

"Billy," she said softly, "Billy." She spoke as though trying to impress the name on her memory.

"He's not a cousin," Mrs. Brown went on to explain, "but he'll be just like one. He's lost his mother—" She paused as her husband entered the kitchen, carrying Billy's box, then exclaimed sharply: "Mind to wipe your boots, William!"

"All right, Maria!" he answered good temperedly, adding: "Please give Billy a candle; he'll light me upstairs."

Billy found he was to have a good-sized bedroom. It was spotlessly clean, with a white-curtained window and a white-curtained bed. He washed his face and hands, whilst his grandfather waited for him; then they went downstairs together. A stout woman, clad in a waterproof, the hood of which was pulled over her head, had come upon the scene in their absence. The minute she saw Billy she made a rush at him, flung her arms around him, and kissed him heartily again and again.

"Oh, the dear little fellow!" she cried, hugging him and half crying. "To think of all he's gone through—the poor, motherless lamb!"

"Elizabeth," said Mrs. Brown sternly, "show more sense! If you go on like that you'll upset him! This is my daughter, Mrs. Dingle, Billy."

"Aunt Elizabeth to you, my dear!" said Mrs. Dingle, kissing the little boy once more before she released him.

Billy looked at her with glowing eyes. He liked her, he had no doubt about that. She had a fresh, rosy face, and eyes as deeply blue as her little daughter's; but what won his heart so quickly was her expression—it was so motherly and kind.

"Well, tea's ready!" exclaimed Mrs. Brown, rather impatiently. "If you won't stay, Elizabeth—"

"I'd best go at once," interrupted Mrs. Dingle. "All right, mother! Oh, you've put May on her coat and hat! Ready, my birdie?"

May nodded. She kissed her grandmother and "dear grandfer" as she called William Brown, then came to Billy, put her arms around his neck and kissed him, too.

"The poor little boy's lost his mother, mummy," she said, as her mother took her by the hand to lead her away.

Mrs. Brown was already seated at the head of the table. She motioned Billy to a chair on her left, whilst her husband took one on her right. William Brown said grace very reverently, and the meal began.

After tea Mrs. Brown took Billy upstairs with her, and unpacked his box. She showed him where he was to keep his belongings, and told him she would be seriously displeased if he was not tidy. Then, as he was very tired, she advised him to go to bed, and left him, returning later to take away his candle. He was just going to get into bed.

As soon as she was gone he crept into bed. A sense of utter loneliness had taken possession of him, and, putting the bedclothes over his head, he gave way to a fit of weeping.

"Oh, mother, mother, mother!" he sobbed, "it's dreadful to think I shall never see you again."

Then suddenly he remembered how Tom Turpin had reminded him that he would be with his mother through all Eternity, and the load of desolation and grief was lifted from his heart.

"'The gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord,'" he whispered to himself, and was comforted.

CHAPTER III.

BILLY HAS A FRIGHT.

BILLY'S grandfather was a prosperous market-gardener now-a-days, but before his second marriage he had been only a farm labourer. He had married the widow of the former tenant of Rowley Cottage, and together they had worked hard to save money, and were now in a comfortable position. Billy's father had not got on with his stepmother, so he had never gone home after he had settled in London and married.

Rowley Cottage, which was really a fair-sized house, was situated far down the side of a steep hill, with a hill equally steep facing it. Before the house sloped a flower garden, at the end of which was a shallow, rippling stream, spanned by a wooden footbridge, and beyond the stream was a large vegetable and fruit garden. Surrounding the house and gardens were apple orchards.

Billy's first morning in his new home was a dull one. It rained hard, so he had to stay indoors. After breakfast his grandfather, clad in oilskins, went out, and did not return till dinner-time. He then said that there was a prospect of the weather clearing.

"If it does I'll show you about a bit," he said to Billy. "We might get as far as the post office—Elizabeth will give us some tea. Won't you come with us, Maria?" he asked his wife.

"No, thank you," answered Mrs. Brown. "I've work to do at home if you haven't. Besides, I've no liking for traipsing about in the mud."

About three o'clock the rain began to cease, and a little later the sun shone out. Billy and his grandfather left the house by the front door. They stood for a minute under the porch, whilst William Brown pointed out a house—the only human habitation in sight—almost on the summit of the opposite hill.

"That's Mount Farm," he said, "farmer Turpin's place. You can see Exeter from there. I used to work for farmer Turpin's father when I was a lad. Ah, the wind's rising! We shall have no more rain for a bit! Come along, Billy!"

He led the way to a little green gate in the garden hedge, by which they passed into an orchard. There was a footpath through the orchard to steep ploughed fields beyond, and a footpath through the fields to a gateway which led into the high road.

Billy was panting when at length the high road was reached, so that his grandfather had to wait for him to regain his breath.

"Oh, look at my boots!" exclaimed the little boy, as they moved on again; "they're all over mud!"

"You'll get accustomed to mud," he said; "but you must have thicker boots. I must take you to Exeter one day and get you fitted out properly for bad weather."

"Oh, thank you!" Billy answered, gratefully. "Shall I have leather leggings like yours, Grandfather?" he asked.

A ten minutes' walk brought them to the village—a few thatched cottages dotted around the church and churchyard. The railway-station, Billy learnt, was half a mile distant in the valley, and the vicarage was midway between the church and the railway-station.

"That's the post office," said William Brown, pointing at a semi-detached cottage with several bottles of sweets and some groceries in the window. "And there's Elizabeth!" he added, as a stout figure, in a dark stuff gown nearly covered by a big white apron, appeared in the doorway.

Mrs. Dingle nodded to her stepfather, and kissed Billy, telling them she had been on the look-out for them ever since dinner.

"And here's Uncle John!" she cried, pulling Billy inside the door and presenting him to a little dark man wearing spectacles, who came from behind the shop counter and peered at him in a near-sighted way.

"Very glad to make your acquaintance, my boy!" declared John Dingle, shaking Billy's hand heartily. "Yes," he said, "I see he's like his father, Elizabeth; but he looks very pale—"

"He's been through enough to make him pale!" broke in his wife. "Come into the parlour, Billy, and talk to me whilst I get tea."

Leaving his grandfather with the postmaster, Billy followed Mrs. Dingle into a tiny parlour behind the shop. It was divided from the shop by a door, the top half of which was of glass with a lace curtain across it. Mrs. Dingle put the kettle on the fire and laid the table for tea. The children were at school, she said, but would be home very shortly, and she did hope he and her boy, Harold, would be friends. Very soon Billy felt quite at ease with her, and began telling her about himself and how sadly he missed his mother. She shed tears when he spoke of his mother, whilst an expression of deep regret settled on her rosy face.

"I wish I'd known her!" she sighed. "Often I used to think I'd write to her, but I never did—not being much of a hand with my pen. And now it's too late! Hark! The children are out of school!"

Billy listened. He heard a babel of children's voices mingled with merry laughter in the road outside the shop. A few minutes later the door between the shop and parlour opened softly, and little May came in. The instant she caught sight of her mother's visitor her look became eager.

"She's thinking of your poor mother," Mrs. Dingle explained hastily; "she doesn't realise she's dead." Then, addressing her little daughter, she asked: "Where's Harold?"

"You mustn't mind if she questions you about your mother. May is backward for her age—there are many things she can't understand, though she's sharp enough in some ways. She learns hardly anything at school. She can't read, or write, or do sums. The mistress doesn't bother her to learn, for she knows she can't. Still, it's good for her to be with other children. By-and-by, perhaps, but God only knows—"

Harold was very like his mother in appearance, being a stout, rosy-cheeked boy. His blue eyes had a merry twinkle in them, and he looked full of fun.

Tea now being quite ready the two men were called from the shop, the lace curtain was pulled back from the glass-top door, and, grace having been said, the meal began.

"Now, make yourself at home, my boy," the postmaster said to Billy, "and let me tell you once for all that you'll always find a welcome here."

"Thank you, Uncle John!" he said, adding: "Oh, I wish mother knew how kind you all are to me!"

Twice during tea customers came to the shop, and the postmaster had to go to serve them. On the second occasion Billy thought he recognised the customer's voice, and glanced quickly at his grandfather.

A smiling face peeped around the half-open glass-top door, whilst its owner said—

Mrs. Dingle was answering that she would be delighted, when there was the sound of a loud report at no great distance, and Billy sprang to his feet with a terrified shriek.

"No, no, no!" Tom Turpin assured him, "nothing of the kind! It's blasting—that is, blowing up rock with dynamite—at the stone quarry. Don't be frightened! Really, there's nothing to be alarmed at. You won't hear the noise, this afternoon, again."

Billy sank into his chair. He was white to the lips, and shaking. The elders of the party looked at him with sympathy and much concern. May's eyes expressed only wonderment, but Harold's sparkled with amusement and scorn.

"The stone quarry's only a couple of miles away, so you'll get accustomed to the sound of blasting," Tom Turpin continued, "and you'll not be scared another time, for you'll know what the sound means."

"Yes—oh, yes!" murmured Billy. He was ashamed of the terror he had felt and exhibited. Everyone would consider him such a coward. His lips quivered, whilst tears rose to his eyes.

"I thought a German airship might be dropping bombs," admitted Billy. "I—I'm ashamed of myself."

"You've no call to be that!" Mrs. Dingle told him. "It's no wonder you're nervy, I'm sure. There, you're all right now, aren't you? Have another cup of tea, won't you? It'll do you good."

Billy shook his head. It was with difficulty he kept from crying. He sat in miserable silence whilst Tom Turpin talked with the others and took his tea, and, when the young soldier left, his voice was unsteady as he said "good-bye" to him. He was sure Tom must despise him for having shown such fear.

It was dark long before Billy and his grandfather started for home. A walk in complete darkness was a novel experience for the little boy, but he was not timid, because his grandfather was with him. He said so, adding, as the hand which held his tightened its clasp—

"Aye," William Brown assented, "to the best of my power. And there's One above, Billy, Who'll look after us both. You'll soon learn to find your way about in the darkness, and won't mind it—why, even little May doesn't."

"You know it says in one of the psalms, 'The Lord my God shall make my darkness to be light,'" his grandfather said thoughtfully; "and I think that, though there's a sort of cloud over May's mind, behind the cloud there's God's own light. The soul that has that light knows no fear."

CHAPTER IV.

SUNDAY.

BILLY'S first Sunday in Devonshire was a beautiful day, with sunshine and a soft westerly breeze. The little boy accompanied "Grandfer," as he had decided to call his grandfather in imitation of the Dingle children, to church in the morning, and, after the service, lingered with him in the churchyard to speak to the Dingles, all of whom had been to church, too. Then Tom Turpin, his mother on one side of him, his father on the other, came out of church, and stopped and spoke, afterwards introducing Billy to his parents.

"I hope to call at Rowley Cottage to-morrow," the young soldier told William Brown; "I want to go around your garden and see everything. Father tells me you're doing your 'bit' to help win the war."

On their way home Billy asked his grandfather what Tom Turpin had meant by this remark. William Brown explained that food was likely to be very short on account of the German submarines, which were torpedoing so many food ships, and that he was doing his "bit" to help win the war by cultivating every inch of his garden, and growing as many vegetables as he could.

"The worst of it is I can get so little help," he said; "there isn't a fit man left in the village for me to employ. That means that I shall have to work doubly hard during the coming winter and spring."

"You?" William Brown looked at his grandson with a slightly amused smile. "Well, I don't know about that," he said doubtfully. "Harold helps his father in his allotment garden, but he's very strong for his age, whilst you're such a delicate little chap—"

"Oh, Grandfer," Billy burst in, "I do believe I'm stronger than I look! Oh, let me help you! Let me try, at any rate! I want so much to do something to help win the war!"

With that Billy had to be satisfied for the time. They were descending the hill to Rowley Cottage by way of the pathfields now, and a few minutes later found them in the orchard, where Jenny was browsing contentedly. She allowed Billy to put his arm around her neck and caress her. His grandfather looked on, rather anxiously at first, then with great satisfaction.

"She's taken to you very well, Billy," he said. "You'll be able to do anything with her, you'll find."

"Shall I?" cried Billy, delighted. "Do you think she'd let me ride her, Grandfer?"

They entered the house by the back door. Mrs. Brown was in the kitchen, dishing dinner. She was very hot, and looked exceedingly ill-tempered.

"Oh, it's well for you, I daresay," she retorted, "you who've had an easy morning; but what about me who's been cooking all the time you've been at church? There, take your seats! Dinner's ready!"

"I often wish you'd manage to do your cooking on a Saturday and have a cold dinner on Sunday like Elizabeth," William Brown remarked; "then you'd be able to go to church—we'd such a nice service this morning, and—"

"Oh, no doubt Elizabeth's a better manager than her mother!" interrupted his wife sarcastically. "I've always cooked on Sundays, and I always shall."

It was a very good dinner, but Billy did not enjoy it, for Mrs. Brown, who carved, gave him a thick slice of fat mutton which he could not eat. Noting this, his grandfather remarked that he was not getting on, and he admitted that he did not like fat meat.

"No, I can't—not without disfiguring the joint, and I'm certainly not going to do that," Mrs. Brown answered. "Billy must learn not to be so particular. If we can eat fat meat he can."

Her husband looked troubled, but said no more. As soon as the meal was over he rose and went out, while Mrs. Brown began to put together the dinner things with a clatter of plates and dishes. Billy watched her in silence for a minute, then asked timidly: "Can I help you, Granny?"

"Help me? You?" cried Mrs. Brown, raising her eyebrows in a contemptuous fashion. "What can you do to help me, I should like to know?"

"I could wash up," Billy answered, flushing, "or I could wipe the things as you wash them—I always did that for mother. If you'll say what you'd like me to do—"

"I'd like you to keep out of my way and leave me to do my work as I please!" Mrs. Brown interrupted. "Stay, though, you can give these scraps to the fowls."

The little boy took the plate of scraps she offered him and went out into the yard. When he returned with the plate empty Mrs. Brown had cleared the table and was washing up.

"Yes, Granny," he answered, "and I liked helping her. She used to be so tired sometimes—she worked very hard, you know."

"Humph! She'd have been wiser if she'd gone into a situation when your father died instead of starting a business of her own."

Billy was silent. His mother—she had been a milliner's apprentice before her marriage—had opened a little business of her own when his father, who had been employed in a warehouse, had died. She had earned enough to support her child and herself, but there had been nothing over.

"Mother didn't want to be parted from me," the little boy said, in a faltering voice; "and now—and now—oh, I can't bear it! Oh, what shall I do?"

He flung himself on the settle by the fire, covered his face with his hands, and wept.

"Don't go on like that, child," Mrs. Brown said hastily; "perhaps we'd better not talk of your mother any more. Come, stop crying, like a sensible boy! Why, here's May! You don't want to upset her, do you?"

Billy sat up, struggling to regain composure. He was wiping his eyes with his pocket-handkerchief when May, entering by the back door, appeared upon the scene. She ran to her grandmother and kissed her, then, turning to Billy, was struck with dismay at his woe-begone look.

"Billy's been crying," she said, in an awed tone. "Why, Billy, why?" she asked, stealing softly to his side. Then, as the little boy's only answer was a suppressed sob, she cried, "I know! You haven't found your mother yet!"

"Oh, May, you don't understand!!" Billy exclaimed, with a wail of grief in his voice. "Mother's dead!"

"Dead?" May echoed, a faintly troubled look disturbing the usual sweet serenity of her face. "But I thought Granny said she was lost?"

"But it isn't true, Granny," May said gravely. "If people are good and love Jesus they go to Jesus for always when they die, don't they?"

"Then," said May, triumphantly, the faintly troubled expression passing from her face, "she can't be lost!"

At that minute Harold came in, looking flushed and heated. Mrs. Brown immediately accused him of having been teasing Jenny. He did not admit it, only laughed, and hastened to tell her that he and May had come to take Billy to church with them.

"Yes, he shall go," Mrs. Brown decided. "Hurry and wash your hands and brush your hair, Billy."

The Vicar of Ashleigh always held a children's service in the church on Sunday afternoons. This afternoon the service had commenced before the Dingle children and Billy got there. They slipped noiselessly into a back seat and joined in the hymn which was being sung. After the hymn the Vicar—an old man with a kind, gentle face—gave an address, and then moved about the church, questioning the children. More than once Billy saw his eyes fixed on him with sympathy and interest.

"So does May," Harold replied; "she thinks there's no one like Mr. Singleton. Can you find your way home by yourself, Billy?"

"That's all right, then," smiled Harold, adding: "you'll meet nothing you need be afraid of, and hear nothing—being Sunday there's no blasting going on at the stone quarry to-day."

CHAPTER V.

BILLY'S PRESENT.

NEXT morning Billy came downstairs looking heavy-eyed and poorly. He had had bad dreams, he said, when his grandfather asked him if he had not slept well; but he did not say that in them he had lived again through the night of the air raid and the grievous time which had followed, so that the hours of darkness had been a horror to him.

"You'd better spend the morning out-of-doors," remarked Mrs. Brown. "It couldn't be finer weather—a good thing, too, as it's washing-day. I hope Mrs. Varcoe will come early, then we shall get the clothes dried during the day."

Mrs. Varcoe was a woman from the village, Billy learnt, who came to Rowley Cottage every Monday morning to do the washing. He met her in the yard, after breakfast, where he was waiting for his grandfather, who was getting his wheel-barrow and gardening tools from an out-house, and she paused to look at him. She was a tall, muscular, red-headed woman, with a big freckled face and small greenish eyes.

"Good morning!" he said politely, thinking that she was certainly the ugliest woman he had ever seen.

"Mrs. Varcoe is very ugly, Grandfer," Billy remarked, as, his grandfather having joined him, they went around the house towards the vegetable garden.

"Aye," William Brown agreed, "but she's a good sort—a widow who's brought up a family of boys and made men of 'em!—men of the right kind, I mean. Four are serving their country—two in the Navy, one in Mesopotamia, and one in France. There was another, but he was killed in action at the beginning of the war. The eldest he was. His death must have been a big blow to his mother; but I've never heard her mention it except once."

"She said, 'It's a grief, but there's no bitterness with it. My boy died fighting for the right, and I shan't be ashamed of him when I meet him before God.' It was a brave speech, wasn't it?"

"Now the first thing I mean to do this morning is to make a bonfire," William Brown said, as they entered the vegetable garden. "You can help me collect all the dead leaves and rubbish lying about. We'll make the bonfire in this corner where there's nothing growing at present."

So Billy set to work with his grandfather. It took them more than an hour to make the bonfire—a huge one. The little boy was allowed to light it, and gave a shout of pleasure as the flames leaped up followed by a volume of smoke.

"Oh, this is splendid!" he cried, "splendid!" A tinge of colour had come into his pale cheeks, and his eyes were sparkling.

"It's burning very well," his grandfather said, smiling at his excitement, "and the smoke's blowing right away from the house—fortunately. I'd forgotten till this moment about the washing—it's always hung out in the orchard at the right side of the house. If the wind had not been blowing the smoke away from that direction the clean clothes might have had smuts on them by this time, and I don't know what Granny would have said—not more than I should have deserved, though, of course. Ah, here comes Master Tom!"

Billy looked at Tom Turpin rather shyly as he greeted him. He wished he had not shown himself such a coward before this young soldier, who, he imagined, did not know what fear meant. He was very quiet as he followed him and his grandfather about the garden, but he listened with the greatest attention to all that was said. William Brown showed where he intended sowing his various crops in the spring, and the bit of orchard he meant to take into the garden.

"I don't know how I'm going to do all I want to," he remarked, "but I shall just plod on bit by bit from day to day and do my best."

"I want to help Grandfer," Billy said eagerly. "I do wish I was bigger and stronger. I tried just now to use Grandfer's spade, but I couldn't—I couldn't drive it more than an inch or two into the ground." He sighed, looking at his thin arms ruefully.

"I've some light garden tools at home my father gave me when I was a boy no bigger than you, and you shall have them," Tom told him. "I'd like to know they were being used. I'll give them to you, Billy, if you'll accept them."

"Oh, Mr. Turpin!" cried the little boy. He could say no more for a minute, so overcome was he with surprise and gratitude; then he added earnestly: "Oh, thank you—thank you!"

"It's too kind of you, Master Tom, really, but if you'll lend the tools to him—" William Brown was beginning, when he was interrupted.

"No, no!" Tom Turpin said decidedly, "I wish him to have them for his own—I'm sure he'll make good use of them."

Tom Turpin had stopped to see William Brown's garden on his way to the village. When he left, Billy went with him through the pathfields to the gate leading into the high road. There they were to part.

"I don't suppose I shall see you again this time I'm home," the young man said, as he looked back at Rowley Cottage, then let his eyes wander to his home on the opposite hill, "so this will be 'good-bye,' Billy. I'll send the garden tools this evening by one of our men who lives in the village."

"Oh, thank you!" cried Billy. Then, suddenly, his face, which had been bright, clouded. "Mr. Turpin," he said, "you weren't ever afraid of anything, were you?"

"What a question!" smiled the young man. "Why, yes, indeed," he answered, becoming serious as he saw this was a serious matter to his little companion. "The first night I spent in the trenches, for instance, I was afraid," he admitted. "Oh, God knows I was awfully afraid!"

Billy gazed at the soldier with amazement. "I should never have thought it!" he declared; "I wouldn't have believed it if anyone but yourself had told me! But you didn't show you were afraid?"

"No. I asked God to strengthen me and take my fear away. I prayed, 'Be not Thou far from me, O Lord,' and by-and-by I began to feel His presence, and then wasn't afraid any more."

Billy drew a deep breath. "I couldn't help being afraid when I heard the blasting," he said in an ashamed tone.

"No, nor could I help being afraid that first night in the trenches. But I found help in my weakness, and that same help is for you if you ask it. Now I must really be off. Good-bye!"

The young soldier vaulted over the gate, greatly to Billy's admiration, waved his hand, and disappeared from view.

Billy hurried back through the path fields, intending to return to his grandfather immediately; but in the orchard, hanging out clean clothes, was Mrs. Brown, and the thought struck him that he would tell her about the gardening tools.

"Oh, Granny," he began, running up to her, "I've had a present—at least I'm to have it by-and-by. A set of gardening tools!"

"Oh!" exclaimed Mrs. Brown. "And who's going to give you that?" she asked sharply. "Not your grandfather, I hope?"

"No, Mr. Turpin—Mr. Tom Turpin," Billy replied. "It's a set he had when he was a boy. Now I shall be able to help grandfather, shan't I?"

Mrs. Brown looked at Billy without answering, and smiled. There was something so contemptuous in her smile that the little boy turned from her with reddening cheeks. Of course she thought he was too small and weak to do gardening, he told himself.

Tom Turpin sent the tools in the evening, as he had promised. Mrs. Brown barely gave them a glance, but her husband pronounced them to be "first-rate" and just the right weight for his grandson's use.

"Yes, if all's well," William Brown answered, smiling; "that means if you sleep well, and come down looking better to-morrow morning than you did to-day."

That night Billy had no bad dreams to disturb him. He added the young soldier's prayer—"Be not Thou far from me, O Lord—" to his usual evening prayers, and fell asleep very quickly. He did not awake till morning—the morning of another beautiful day.

CHAPTER VI.

GARDENING.

Billy was having his first lesson in gardening. His grandfather had shown him the proper way to use his spade, and for the last half hour he had been labouring on a patch of ground which had to be dug up and prepared for spring tillage. Now, as his grandfather spoke, he ceased work and stood leaning on his spade, viewing the freshly turned soil with great satisfaction.

"That it is!" agreed William Brown. "We often get fine weather like this hereabouts in November; it gives one an opportunity of preparing for the winter. Golden days I call these, and one must make the most of them, for there are days coming when there'll be no working on the land. The leaves are hanging late on the trees this year, but the first night's sharp frost will bring them down in a hurry—they're ripe to fall. Why, who's this I see?"

As if he did not recognise the little figure that had entered the garden and was hastening towards them with light, tripping steps.

"It's May," said Billy. "Do you think she has come all the way from the village by herself?"

"Yes," nodded his grandfather. "I thought she might be here to-day, for I knew the fine weather would make her restless and long to be out-of-doors. When she's like that she doesn't want to go to school, and the teacher agrees it's better not to send her. Well, May, my pet! Come and look at Billy's beautiful tools. Show them to her, Billy."

Billy was very proud and pleased to do so. May examined each tool separately with the greatest interest.

"Yes," he answered, "my very, very own. And I can use them quite easily—they're so light. Mr. Tom Turpin gave them to me. Wasn't it kind of him? I turned up that ground—look!"

"I think you've done enough for this morning," remarked William Brown. "You'd better clean off your spade, and put your tools away."

Billy obeyed. His arms and shoulders were aching, but he had no intention of admitting that. Accompanied by May he left the garden, and put his tools in the out-house where he had been told to keep them. He intended returning at once to his grandfather, but May took him by the hand and led him into the orchard, saying that she wanted to speak to Jenny and he must come with her. When Jenny saw the children she began to bray and walk towards them.

Dropping Billy's hand she ran to the donkey, clasped her around the neck, and talked to her in a whisper so low that the little boy could not hear a word. Then Scout came up, and he, too, had to be noticed. He looked at May with a wealth of love in his brown eyes, and kept close to her side when, having said all she wanted to say to Jenny, she beckoned Billy to follow her across the orchard. In a sheltered corner she paused, and pointed at the ground.

"This is where the snowdrops are, underneath the grass," she said gravely. Then suddenly, to Billy's astonishment, she dropped on her knees, bent her head low, and cried softly: "Little snowdrops, little snowdrops, are you still asleep?" She listened a minute, then rose, a finger on her lips.

"Asleep?" Billy echoed wonderingly. "Snowdrops don't go asleep, May!" He smiled at the idea.

"Oh, yes, they do!" she corrected. "Didn't you know? Mr. Singleton told me. I was, oh, so sorry when they died! Then Mr. Singleton told me they'd gone deep, deep into the ground, and would sleep, sleep, sleep till the spring came again, and God would say: 'Little snowdrops, awake!' It's so sunny and warm to-day, I thought p'r'aps the spring had come."

"Why, it's November, May!" exclaimed Billy, full of amazement. "It won't be spring for months and months."

The little girl heaved a gentle sigh and rose from her knees. For a minute her face wore a slightly clouded expression, then it smiled and became contented again.

"Never mind," she said, "never mind! Mr. Singleton says God'll remember them—He never forgets."

They returned to the garden, where William Brown had stirred up the bonfire which had smouldered through the night. May clapped her hands with delight when she saw the flames, and she and Billy set to work collecting more rubbish to keep the bonfire burning.

At one o'clock Mrs. Brown came and called them in to dinner. She was evidently pleased to see May. Billy noticed that her face softened as she kissed the little girl and inquired if her mother knew where she was.

"Oh, yes!" the child answered, adding: "I can stay till Harold fetches me, Granny."

Harold did not arrive at Rowley Cottage till half-past four o'clock. He had been told he must not stop to tea, he said, as it got dark so early now, so May must please come at once. May told him of Billy's gardening tools, and he lingered to have a look at them. The sight of them evidently made him a little envious, for he did not express the admiration Billy had expected he would.

"Grandfer says they're none the worse for that," replied Billy. "See how sharp the spade is! That's from use, Grandfer says. I think they're beautiful tools."

"Oh, he thought they would be just the right weight for me," explained Billy, "and so they are."

"He never gave me anything," remarked Harold, in a decidedly grudgeful tone, "and he's always known me, whilst you—why, you're almost a stranger to him! However, I don't want gardening tools; I've some of my own that father gave me last birthday."

"Of course you wouldn't, as your father gave them to you," Billy said quickly. "I suppose you know all about gardening?" he suggested.

"Rather!" Harold replied. "Father's got an allotment, and I help him work it. We won several prizes at the vegetable and flower show last August—the show's held in the Vicarage grounds every year. You haven't seen the allotment gardens yet, I suppose? No? Well, you'd better come and have a look at them on Saturday—there's no school then, and I can show you about."

"Oh, thank you!" cried Billy. "I'll come—that is if Grandfer and Granny will let me."

"Grandfer's so good-natured he generally lets people do as they like; and Granny—well, I expect she'll be glad to get you out of her way. She was vexed you had to come here, you know."

"I didn't know," said Billy. He felt hurt, but somehow he was not in the least surprised. "How do you know?" he inquired.

"Oh, I heard her talking about you to mother before you came," Harold replied; "she said you'd be more trouble than enough, she expected."

"Why should she have said that?" cried Billy indignantly, adding, as Harold shook his head, "I think it was an unkind thing to say, and—and an unkind thing to repeat!"

"Now you're angry," he said, "and won't come on Saturday, I suppose. Well, do as you like!"

He went off, leading May, who had listened to the conversation between the two boys in puzzled silence. Billy watched them through the orchard with a swelling heart. As they passed through the gateway into the pathfields May looked back and waved her hand.

"Good-bye, Billy!" she cried; "I'll come again to-morrow if mother'll let me! I like you, Billy, I do!"

Billy nodded and smiled. Then a cold nose touched his hand, and Scout rubbed against him. He bent to caress the dog, and as he did so, heard his grandfather's voice calling him to come in to tea. It sounded so hearty that he felt quite cheered by it.

CHAPTER VII.

"COME LIFE, COME DEATH, THEY'RE SAFE."

DURING the next few days, the weather continuing fine, May was a constant visitor at Rowley Cottage, coming and going as she pleased. She spent most of her time with her grandfather and Billy in the garden, but sometimes she would leave them and wander about the orchard with the live-stock there. She had no fear of any living creature, and even the big, grey gander, which hissed so fiercely, would eat from her hand.

"She's not like any other little girl I ever knew," Billy remarked to his grandfather one evening, as they sat on the settle by the kitchen fire, Scout asleep at their feet, discussing May, who had gone home shortly before tea.

"I expect not," William Brown answered, "she's different from most children, poor dear! She learns nothing at school, but—"

"She's only backward," his wife broke in sharply. She was seated near the table, sewing by the light of an oil lamp. "You needn't speak as though she's stupid," she added, in a tone full of resentment, "for she can learn some things quick enough."

"Just what I was going to say when you interrupted me," William Brown said mildly. "She can't remember if you try to teach her to read or add up figures, but tell her anything about an animal or a bird, or a flower, and she'll remember it. Oh, yes! If she's a bad memory for some things—"

"Oh, her memory will be all right by-and-by!" broke in Mrs. Brown again. "It'll strengthen as she grows older, you'll find!"

"I hope so, I'm sure," her husband muttered to himself. Aloud he said: "I suppose you've no objection to Billy's spending to-morrow with his cousins, Maria? Being Saturday, Harold will have a holiday. I saw Elizabeth when I went to the post office this afternoon, and she asked if Billy might come. Of course, I said 'yes.'"

"Then why ask me anything about it?" questioned Mrs. Brown tartly. "You said 'yes,' so that's enough. Billy and his cousins indeed!"

"Aunt Elizabeth said I was to look on May and Harold as cousins," explained Billy, adding in a disappointed tone, "If you don't want me to go, Granny, of course I won't."

Accordingly Billy went. He consulted his grandfather as to the time he ought to go, and was told as early after breakfast as he pleased. So soon after nine o'clock found him at the top of the hill, hastening in the direction of the village. At the first turn of the road he met May and Harold.

"Oh, here you are!" exclaimed Harold. "We were coming to meet you. She—" nodding at his sister—"would come too! Now what would you like to do before dinner? I thought we wouldn't go to the allotment field till this afternoon, then father'll be there. Father can't leave the post office in the morning, because mother's too busy about the house to attend to the shop. I say, don't you think it would be nice to go down to the bridge by the railway-station? We might sit on it and watch the Canadians."

"Yes—the Canadian lumbermen. They've been taking down trees in the valley, and they've got a steam saw near the station cutting them up. It's great fun looking on. You'd like it, wouldn't you?"

So the children spent the morning seated on top of one of the arches of an old stone bridge close to the railway-station, watching a great steam saw at work, and a lot of khaki-clad Canadian lumbermen loading trucks with timber. Some of the men spoke to them good-naturedly in passing, and one, a grey-headed, middle-aged man who seemed to be in command of the others, stopped, and, after exchanging a few words with the boys, addressed himself to May.

"I've a little daughter at home in Canada with fair hair like yours," he told her, with a smile. "Guess she's about your age, my dear. Real smart she is. See!"

He took a letter from his pocket, opened it, looked at it admiringly for a few moments, then showed it to May.

"Her own handwriting," he said proudly; "her own spelling too. Guess, now, you can't write or spell much better than that yourself."

"May can't either write or spell," Harold said, as his little sister did not attempt to answer; "she goes to school, but she can't learn—it's not her fault."

The Canadian put his great brown hand under May's chin, lifted her face and looked long and earnestly into the depths of her dark-blue eyes. What he saw there brought a very tender expression into his own eyes.

"No," he said gently, "it's not her fault. What's your name, little one?" he asked May.

When she had told him, he remarked that it was a very pretty name. Then he asked for a kiss, and, having received it, went across the bridge and away.

Her brother nodded, laughing. "It's across the sea," he explained. "To get there you've to go in a ship."

"She stayed by the sea once," Harold told Billy. "Mother took her to Teignmouth for a week because she'd been ill; that was two years ago, but she's never forgotten it. Now, what do you say to making a move? I'm getting so hungry that I'm sure it must be nearly dinner-time."

Dinner was being dished when the children reached the post office. Billy, who was quite at his ease with his adopted relations, enjoyed his dinner—a share of a large rabbit-pie, which was the nicest he had ever tasted, he thought. He did not talk much himself, but listened to the conversation of the others. He learnt that on Saturday afternoons Mrs. Varcoe came to "scrub up," and that Aunt Elizabeth took charge of the post office so that her husband might go gardening.

As soon as ever dinner was over Uncle John said, "Now then, boys!" and a start was made for the allotment gardens.

The allotment gardens were in a field which sloped right down to the river. Many of their owners were there on this sunny November afternoon, tidying their patches of ground against the coming winter. Several large bonfires were burning finely, and it was not long before Harold and Billy were busily engaged making a bonfire of their own. Meanwhile John Dingle was weeding the ground between his winter greens, pausing now and again to exchange a few words with other allotment holders.

"There's going to be a change in the weather before long," Billy overheard him say by-and-by to a man who was passing.

"Very often. But there are other signs the fine weather's going to break up. See those long fleecy clouds? Mares' tails we call 'em. They mean wind—high wind. It wouldn't surprise me if there was a westerly gale before morning. Where's May?"

May had followed her father and the boys to the allotment field, but had wandered away from her father's garden. She was now seen returning with the Vicar—he often came there on Saturday afternoons, Billy afterwards learnt.

"Oh, she's with Mr. Singleton!" John Dingle exclaimed; "that's all right! I don't like her to get away to the river by herself for fear she should fall in. You haven't spoken to our Vicar yet, have you, Billy? He was in the post office this morning and spoke of you—he noticed you on Sunday."

"Yes," said Mr. Singleton, who had come up with May and heard the postmaster's last words; "and I want to make the acquaintance of my new parishioner."

He shook hands with Billy. Although he was really old his eyes looked young, the little boy noticed. Those eyes were smiling at him now in the kindliest, friendliest fashion. "So you've come to live with your grandfather," he said. "I hope you'll like the country. You're going in for gardening, I understand! Ah, you wonder how I know that! A friend of yours told me—Mr. Tom Turpin."

"Oh!" cried Billy, flushing. So the Vicar considered Mr. Tom Turpin his friend! His heart swelled with happiness at that thought.

"He came to see me to say 'good-bye,'" the Vicar continued; "dropped in for a few minutes with his father on his way to the railway-station. He's gone to-day."

"He will," the Vicar answered; "be sure He will. We know the Lord is mindful of His own—come life, come death, they're safe."

Come life, come death, they're safe! Those words, spoken by the old man with child-like faith and conviction, sounded in Billy's ears again and again during the remainder of the day, bringing joy and consolation with them. They eased the ache there was always in his heart when he thought of his mother, the innocent victim of the cruel war, and he murmured them to himself that night, as he lay in bed in the darkness, listening to the rising wind which was beginning to moan and to sob around the house.

The postmaster had been a true prophet. The fine weather had broken up. The after-glow of summer had gone.

CHAPTER VIII.

GRANDFER'S SECRET.

BILLY started up in bed uttering shriek after shriek, his forehead damp with perspiration, his limbs a tremble, his heart cold with fear. What had happened? A terrible noise had wakened him from tranquil sleep, a noise right overhead it had seemed. He had opened his eyes to find himself in pitch darkness; but now, all of a sudden, a great light almost blinded him, and, springing out of bed, he made a rush across the room for the door. As he reached it, it was opened, and Mrs. Brown, carrying a lighted candle, caught him by the arm.

"What's the matter, child?" she asked crossly. "Oh, stop that noise! Do you hear? Stop that noise, you little coward, you!"

Billy obeyed. The room was in darkness again but for the flickering light of the candle which Mrs. Brown placed on the top of a chest of drawers.

"Get back to bed!" she commanded, giving the boy a little shake, then letting him go. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself for shrieking like that just because there's a thunderstorm."

"A thunderstorm!" faltered Billy. "Oh, was it only thunder I heard? I thought—oh, that's lightning!" He crept into bed and lay down.

For a moment the room had been illuminated brilliantly. Now a series of low, crackling reports sounded right overhead.

"The Germans haven't ventured over Devonshire yet," Mrs. Brown remarked, "and maybe they never will. But if they came you'd do no good by shrieking."

"I know," Billy answered. "I couldn't help it, Granny! I couldn't, indeed! Oh!—" as another flash of lightning lit up the room. "Now we shall have thunder again!"

He was right. This time, however, it did not sound directly over the house, but further away. Mrs. Brown sat down on the edge of the bed and looked at him gravely. She had thrown on a grey flannel dressing-gown, which she now proceeded to button up.

"I'll stay with you a little while," she said, her voice sounding kinder; "if I'd known you'd have been so scared I'd have come to you before. But I thought perhaps you'd sleep on like your grandfather. He's such a heavy sleeper nothing disturbs him, yet he always wakes up sharp at six o'clock. It's been a wild night, but the thunder's passing, I think."

"Yes," agreed Billy. He listened, then went on, "But hark to the rain! It's coming down in torrents! It must have put out all the bonfires, and they were burning so beautifully. Oh, Granny, poor Jenny! How dreadful to think of her out in the orchard."

"Jenny's all right," Mrs. Brown assured him. "Your grandfather put her in her stable the last thing before he went to bed; she won't sleep out again this winter, I reckon. Why, you're trembling still, child!"

"But I'm not frightened any longer. I'm not afraid of thunder and lightning; it was only—that I didn't know—"

"Oh, yes, I understand now," Mrs. Brown broke in; "but I didn't at first. I'm sorry I didn't."

"Oh, never mind, Granny," Billy murmured. "I oughtn't to have been afraid; I shouldn't have been if I'd stopped to think—to remember God was with me and that He'd keep me safe."

"Yes, He did!" he cried. "He took her to be with Him for ever and ever! That's being safe, isn't it?"

Mrs. Brown was silent. She was not religious in the true sense of the word. She called herself a Christian, of course, but she had never opened her heart to the Saviour—never known that love which passeth knowledge. Indeed, she had never felt the need of that love; but now, as she looked at Billy's glowing face and shining eyes, she had a feeling that the little boy possessed something of which she was lacking.

"When I miss her—and, oh! I miss her always, every minute of the day," he continued, "it makes my heart ache less when I remember she's safe. Oh, mother!" He caught his breath with a sob.

"You mustn't grieve, child," Mrs. Brown said, with unusual gentleness; "by your own telling you know that she's better off where she's gone. I daresay she had a troublous life."

Billy nodded. "But we were very happy," he said, "just mother and me. Of course we were poor, but Grandfer helped us. He used to write such nice letters—short, but ever so kind. We used to look forward to getting his letters, not so much because of the money—"

"The money he used to send us," the little boy explained. "Oh, didn't you know about it?"

Mrs. Brown hesitated, but only momentarily. Her face was flushed and her brows were knitted in a frown.

"No," she replied, "I did not. Perhaps your grandfather thought it no business of mine." She rose as she spoke and took her candle. "Well, I suppose I can leave you now," she remarked; "you're not likely to have a shrieking fit again."

Billy ceased speaking abruptly, for Mrs. Brown had gone, closing the door behind her. He did not feel at all sleepy, but he closed his eyes and tried to sleep. He wished he had not spoken of the money his grandfather had given his mother. He supposed, now, that Grandfer had not wished Granny to know about it—that that was the reason why he had always been so anxious not to be thanked. Then would Granny have been against the money having been sent?

"That must be it!" Billy decided. "Oh, how mean of her! Yes, I do call it mean! She is mean."

Though he had been so short a time at Rowley Cottage, he had discovered that Mrs. Brown had but one aim and ambition in life—to make and save money. Only the day before she had shown temper because her husband had become a subscriber to some war charity.

"You can't afford it!" she had declared. "We're only working people! Don't I slave from dawn to dusk over the housework and poultry, doing without a servant to save money? And you—why, you'd give the coat off your back, I believe, if anyone asked you for it! What's going to become of us in our old age if we don't put by now? Oh, we ought to trust Providence a bit, ought we? What cant! 'Look-out for yourself' is my motto, and it will take some beating! Don't talk to me!"

William Brown had not done so, but had allowed her to rage on. Billy was thinking how sad and ashamed he had looked, when he heard raised voices in the next room. Evidently a quarrel was taking place. He sat up in bed and listened, then, unable to make out what was being said, slipped out of bed and opened the door. Only one voice was speaking now—Granny's, shrill and excited.

"You kept it a secret from me to avoid unpleasantness?" it cried. "A fine excuse! And now you won't even tell me how much you sent her! It's too bad—too bad! And I had to admit to the boy you kept me in the dark! A nice position to have put your wife in! Shame on you, William Brown!"

"The shame's on you who were always so against the boy's father!—on you who begrudged the little money I spent on bringing him up and educating him!" Billy heard his grandfather retort. "You were never fair to my son—your own daughter knows it!"

Billy shut the door heavily and went back to bed. He had suddenly remembered that he ought not to be listening. Oh, how he wished he had not mentioned his grandfather's secret! But he had not known it was a secret till Mrs. Brown's flushed face and frowning brows had enlightened him.

The lightning was coming in only occasional flashes now, and the thunder had nearly stopped. By-and-by the angry voices in the next room ceased. Still Billy could not sleep. Though no longer frightened he could not quiet his nerves; he felt them throbbing all over him, even to his finger-tips. At last came dawn—a wintry dawn, chill and mournful, and it was time to rise.

The little boy was nearly dressed when Mrs. Brown, looking much as usual, opened the door and popped her head in.

"Oh, you're getting up!" she said. "Your grandfather's been out this long while, and'll be in to breakfast soon. Hurry! I want you to feed the fowls, and—but how white you look! Didn't you sleep again?"

"No," Billy admitted, "I couldn't—I was too unhappy. Oh, Granny, I heard you and Grandfer quarrelling," and his voice choked. "My head's dizzy," he faltered; "I feel—"

The room seemed to be swimming about him. He saw everything through a mist. The mist thickened and closed in around him, and had not Mrs. Brown rushed into the room and caught him as he staggered, he would have fallen, unconscious, upon the floor.

CHAPTER IX.

THE BIRD PICTURE BOOK.

FOR several days Billy was ill, so ill that he kept his bed, and the doctor who attended him insisted he should have a night nurse. Accordingly Mrs. Varcoe was engaged to fill that position.

"Such an expense!" Billy overheard Mrs. Brown grumbling to her daughter, who came to Rowley Cottage, greatly concerned, as soon as she heard of his illness. "The doctor says he's still suffering from shock to some extent, and his nerves are unstrung. I never bargained he would be as delicate as this."

"Oh, I expect he'll be all right after a bit," was the hasty response. "I can understand how the thunderstorm upset him. Of course, you can't work by day and nurse by night, mother; you've done wisely in getting Mrs. Varcoe."

At first Billy was rather in awe of Mrs. Varcoe. He felt as though a giantess had taken possession of him. But he soon discovered that the giantess, in spite of her big, work-roughened hands, had the gentlest touch possible, and that her shrewd green eyes often had a very tender mother-look in them.

She was a silent watcher at his bedside as a rule, but one night, when Billy was too feverish and restless to sleep, she proved that she could be a good talker. He questioned her about her sons, and she told him a great deal that interested him concerning them, and spoke of a letter she had received after the eldest had been killed.

"It was from his captain," she explained; "just a few words, saying my boy had been a good soldier and had done his duty. I ought to be a proud mother, he said. And I am!"

He felt there was a link between him and Mrs. Varcoe, for both of them had suffered through the war. He began to talk to her of his mother, and that led to tears. She did not try to stop him, as Granny would have done, when he began to weep. No! she put her strong arms around him, and hushed him upon her breast. There, by-and-by, he fell asleep.

During the days he was in bed Billy was kept very quiet, but directly he came downstairs again he was allowed to see visitors. The Vicar was the first who called to see him; then each of the members of the Dingle family came at different times, delighted that he was about again. After that little May came every afternoon, and sat beside him on the settle, talking to him about the animals and birds she noticed on her daily journey from the village to Rowley Cottage.

"Get well quickly, Billy," she would say, "then I'll take you to the woods to see the squirrels. Oh, they are the dearest, sweetest things! You'll love them, you will!"

A wonderfully happy time followed. After the heavy rains a spell of dry, clear weather set in. Every day now found Billy either in the garden with his grandfather or roaming about the woods and lanes with May. He never tired of watching the squirrels springing from tree to tree, and he soon grew accustomed to the sounds which at first startled him—the rustle of birds and the scuttle of rabbits in the undergrowth, the discordant cries of cock-pheasants as they rose from the ground and took wing, and the mournful hoot of the owls.

Once, on a misty day, he saw an owl quite close. It was white, save for a few light golden-brown feathers in its wings, and had a round, solemn, baby face.

Then he learnt to ride Jenny, and to drive her in the market cart, too. One never-to-be-forgotten day he drove his grandfather nearly to Exeter. As they neared the city they began to meet other vehicles, and his grandfather changed seats with him and took the reins. He was rather glad of this, not as yet being an experienced driver.

The first stop they made when Exeter was reached was before a large fruit and poultry shop in High Street. Here William Brown unloaded the contents of his cart—a quantity of winter greens and potatoes, and two baskets, one containing dead poultry, the other some golden apples called "Blenheim Oranges," the crop of one of his best apple-trees which had been gathered carefully before the gales, and hoarded. Then they drove to various other shops and did a lot of shopping, for Mrs. Brown had given them a long list of errands to execute; and, later, their purchases having been stored away in the market cart, they drove down a narrow side-street into a yard, where they left Jenny and her load in the care of a stable boy who seemed to know her and smacked her fat sides familiarly.

"Nov for the market!" said William Brown. He dived his hand into his trouser-pocket, and the next minute slipped half-a-crown into his grandson's palm. "A trifle for pocket-money," he explained, with his good-natured smile.

"Certainly," agreed his grandfather. "Spend it, or, if you like, you can open an account with it in the Post Office Savings Bank."

"I think I'd like to spend it, grandfather." The market reached, William Brown met several acquaintances who claimed his attention. He suggested that Billy should go and look at the shops and come back to him, adding that he would be there for an hour at least. Billy jumped at the suggestion, for he wanted to spend his half-crown. He thought he would buy himself a pocket-knife. It would be such a useful thing to have.

He wandered from shop to shop, gazing into the windows. At last he came to one in which were all sorts of fancy articles.

"I should think they'd sell pocket-knives here," he thought. "I'll ask, anyway."

There were several customers in the shop when he entered it, so the little boy had to wait a few minutes before he could be attended to. He passed the time in looking at some picture books on the counter. One, in particular, excited his admiration. It contained coloured prints of all sorts of birds, wild and tame. "How May would like that!" he thought. "I'll buy it for her!—that is, if it is not too expensive." Turning to an assistant who had come to him, he inquired: "What is the price of this picture book, please?"

"Oh!" exclaimed Billy. "I can't afford that." He had hoped it might not be more than a shilling. If he bought it he would have only sixpence left. "What are the prices of your pocket-knives?" he asked.

He stood undecided, thinking. May knew nothing about the book, and he wanted a pocket-knife so much. Harold had one, and it was most useful. But the book would be a great joy to May. Oh, she must have it!

When he returned to the market to his grandfather the bird picture book was in his possession.

"No," he replied. "I've sixpence left that I'm going to save towards buying a pocket-knife."

He did not tell his grandfather then what he had purchased, but on the way home, some hours later, he told him.

"It's all pictures of birds," he explained. "I'm sure May'll be pleased with it."

"Aye, I reckon!" William Brown nodded. He had refused to allow Billy to drive on the homeward journey, saying that it would be dark very soon. But Billy was not nervous to-day, as he had been during his first drive from Exeter. He knew now how sure-footed Jenny was, and that his grandfather was a careful driver. By-and-by his grandfather began to talk of the plans his Exeter acquaintances were making for growing big crops of vegetables and corn next year.

"Every one's as keen as pepper to get as much as possible out of the land," he said. "We men at home mean to show our fighting men we can do our bit as well as they can. And may God prosper our labours! After all's said and done, we can't do anything without Him! The harvest's in His hands, you know, Billy! Ah! those who work on the land need to put a deal of faith in th' Almighty."

They had nearly reached home now. A few minutes later Jenny was picking her way down the cart track at the back of the house, her master at her head. Then she drew up with a satisfied snort before the back door. Billy jumped out, and ran into the kitchen, his purchase under his arm. He had hoped to see May. But she was not there. Having known he would be absent she had not been near Rowley Cottage for the day. No one was there but Mrs. Brown.

"Oh, Granny!" cried the little boy, "look here! Grandfer gave me half-a-crown, and I bought this."

He pulled off the paper from the picture book, which he put into her hands, never doubting but that she would admire it. She glanced at it with a darkening face.

"A baby's book!" she exclaimed scornfully. "The idea of a boy your age wasting money on such a book as this! Your grandfather should have known better than to let you!"

"I bought it for May," faltered Billy. "It all pictures—pictures of birds. She loves birds, so I thought she'd be pleased—"

"Oh, it's for May, is it?" Mrs. Brown broke in, with a sudden change of tone. "That alters the case. She'll be pleased, of course, and—and it was good of you to remember the poor child, Billy."

CHAPTER X.

SPRING.

THE bird picture book proved indeed a great joy to May, as Billy had thought it would, and many were the hours she spent poring over it during the long winter days when bad weather kept her indoors. She was quick to learn the names of the pictured birds she did not already know by sight, and eager to find out all about them. The Vicar could give her more information than anyone else. All she learnt from him she repeated to Billy.

After Christmas Billy attended the village school. He was in better health now, and far less nervous in every way. The distressing dreams which had haunted his sleep for so many weeks disturbed him no longer. "'Thou shalt not be afraid of the terror by night,'" he reminded himself if he awoke in the darkness; whilst morning and evening he prayed Tom Turpin's prayer, "'Be not Thou far from me, O Lord,'" and felt it was answered.

It was a dragging winter, and a cold spring. With the lengthening days came a spell of severe frost which lasted for weeks, when no work could be done on the land. Mrs. Brown fussed because her husband was obliged to be idle, but he was not in the least disturbed.

"It'll be all right, Maria," he assured her cheerfully. "By-and-by spring will come with a rush."

Such was indeed the case. Within one week there was a great transformation scene. The wind changed from north-east to south-west, a gentle rain fell on the frost-dried earth; then the rain ceased, sunshine came, and the soft stir of awakening life.

There was plenty of work to be done out-of-doors now. William Brown had the assistance of a couple of old men from the village, and with them he laboured from dawn till dark. On Saturdays Billy worked in the garden too. He helped his grandfather prepare the beds for the small seeds, making the earth as fine as possible, and learnt the different depths the various seeds had to be sown, and not to sow them too thickly.

"You'll make a rare good gardener one of these days," his grandfather told him approvingly; "your heart's in the work, I see."

At last all the seeds were in the ground. The garden at Rowley Cottage, with its trim, smooth beds, was a picture of neatness. The gardens in the allotment field were in a like condition. And now there was a lull in the gardening.

Billy thought the seeds were slow in growing, but his grandfather assured him that they were doing all right.

"But how can you tell, Grandfer?" the little boy inquired. "You can't see them."

"No, Billy," William Brown answered; "I can't see them, but I've faith as to what's going on underground. I've seen too many springtimes to doubt that."

"Why," his grandfather said gravely, "a miracle—the miracle of the resurrection. It's too wonderful for us to understand. We don't see the stir of life in the spring, but we see the effect of it in everything—in the budding trees, the flowers, the fresh green grass. It's God's life-giving spirit wakening the world from its winter sleep. We must have patience. We sowed good seeds; bought them from a reliable firm, and they're all right."

And all right they were. One morning William Brown announced, at breakfast, that the turnips and parsnips were showing above the ground. Before going to school Billy had a look at them. What tiny plants they were! After that, other vegetables, such as carrots, beets, and onions, were not long in appearing, and, once above ground, they grew apace.

One afternoon Billy arrived home to tea, carefully carrying a small pot containing a marrow plant, a gift from the postmaster. After tea, under the directions of his grandfather, he tilled the marrow plant out.

"Uncle John has given Harold one, too, Grandfer," he said; "so we're going to see which of us can grow the biggest marrow. The plants are as alike as two plants can possibly be."

"John Dingle took the prize for marrows at the vegetable show last year," William Brown remarked.

"Yes, he told me," Billy answered, adding; "He says he should like one of us boys to win the prize this year. We both mean to try."

Accordingly he gave his plant every care and attention, shielding it from the too fierce rays of the sun before it had properly rooted, and watering it regularly. He was delighted with the quickness of its growth. When it came into flower his grandfather advised him which flowers to take off and which to let remain. He often called at the post office to tell John Dingle how well the plant was doing. On one of these occasions, hearing that May and Harold had gone to the allotment field, he followed them there.

Harold was weeding in his father's garden when Billy arrived at the allotment field Billy examined his marrow plant, which seemed in just the same flourishing condition as his own, and then went in search of May, who had wandered off to the river. He found her on the river's bank. She turned a bright, happy face to him as he approached, and, with her finger on her lip, whispered—

She pointed to a clump of grasses growing beneath the overhanging bank opposite. Close by three baby dip-chicks were disporting themselves in the water, whilst their mother swam around them, keeping guard.

"Aren't they sweet little things?" whispered May. "Oh, look, there's their father! What a hurry he's in!"

Sure enough there he was, running along the bank towards his family. Suddenly he dived off into the river. There was a great flutter for a moment or two, then father, mother, and baby dip-chicks had all disappeared under the overhanging bank.

"Oh, I'm ever so careful!" the little girl assured him. "I do love the river; don't you? And it's so happy to-day! Listen how it laughs and sings! That's because it's fine weather and the sun shines. Back in the winter it was different—so dark and deep. Billy, it must be very wise, mustn't it? for it's come such a long, long way, from up in the Dartmoor hills. It's going right on to the sea. Mr. Singleton told me. He comes here sometimes, and we listen to the river together. Oh, look, look! What's that? There, up in the sky! And what a funny noise, Billy!"

Billy's eyes followed the direction of the little girl's pointing finger, and saw an aeroplane coming towards them, high in the sky. It looked like a great bird in the distance, but he recognised it as an aeroplane at a glance, for he had frequently seen them pass over London. Though he knew there was little likelihood of this one being an enemy, his heart throbbed fast at the sight of it. He explained to May what it was; then Harold rushed up to them in a great state of excitement.

"An aeroplane! An aeroplane!" he cried. "The first I've seen! Oh, I hope father and mother and every one in the village will see it, too! The men say it's most likely going to Plymouth."

He referred to several allotment holders who had been busy in their gardens a few minutes before; they were now standing with heads thrown back watching the strange sight. Nearer and nearer it came, then passed right over the gardens.

"It's a biplane," said Billy, rather proud of his knowledge. "I've seen several like it before. How fast it's going! And can't we hear its engines working plainly! That's the funny noise you spoke of, May. Buzz-z-z-z!"

May drew a deep sigh. She was watching the aeroplane with breathless interest, her colour coming and going fitfully. It was momentarily growing more and more like a bird as it sailed away. When at last it was lost to view the children left the allotment field and hurried back to the village. Every one had been out to watch. The aeroplane was the talk of the place, and indeed of the neighbourhood, for days.

CHAPTER XI.

GRANNY SURPRISES BILLY.

"I'M come to tea, mother," announced Mrs. Dingle, one hot August afternoon, as she entered the kitchen at Rowley Cottage, where Mrs. Brown stood ironing at a table near the open window. "I shan't be in your way, shall I? Here, you rest a bit, and let me take on your irons."

"No, thank you," Mrs. Brown answered. "You were never a good hand at ironing starchery, Elizabeth, and I can't bear to see it done badly. I'm doing Billy's collars—such a lot there are! This hot weather a collar rarely lasts him more than a day."

"I suppose he makes a lot of extra work for you," remarked Mrs. Dingle, seating herself and taking off her hat.

"You suppose?" said her mother tartly. "As if you didn't know, when you've a boy of your own! By the way, I believe May and Harold are about here somewhere."

"They're in the garden—I've been there. They're helping net the plum-trees. Billy's a born gardener, his grandfather says."

"To give him his due, he's been a great help during the fruit-picking," she allowed. "All his spare time out of school hours during the summer he's spent in the garden, and now it's holidays he's there from morning till night. Did he show you his marrow—the one he is going to cut for the show?"

"Mother, have you noticed any alteration in May lately? No? Oh, I have, and her father too! She's far less dreamy and more interested in things in general than she used to be. The other day we were surprised to find she's really beginning to learn to read."

"Yes, mother; yes, indeed! It seems it was Billy who taught her her letters. Don't you remember how much time she spent with him after his illness?"

"Of course! But I never paid much attention to them—they used to sit on the settle by the fire, looking at the pictures in some story books he has and talking in whispers. And he taught her then? Yes? Well, I never!"

"She can read short words now," Mrs. Dingle said, with a tremble of joyfulness in her voice. "Fancy! Oh, I think it's marvellous—marvellous! It's been such a trouble to John and me that our little maid should be so different from others."

"Mr. Singleton says if you can interest her in anything she can learn all about it quicker than most children," she said eagerly; "but if you can't it's impossible to teach her or to chain her attention. She got interested in Billy's books because there are such wonderful stories in them, and that made her want to learn to read. Then Billy began to teach her—he says it wasn't so very difficult; but I don't think he quite realises what a great matter it is—that it shows our darling's intellect is less clouded than we thought. Oh, mother, I don't feel now that I shall fear for the child any more! Her school-teacher's most hopeful about her, and I—oh, I'm grateful to God from the bottom of my heart!"

"I feel we owe a great deal to Billy," Mrs. Dingle proceeded, "because he's been so good to May. From the first she took to him. He's always been patient with her and never laughed at her quaint ways. Harold's always saying, 'Don't talk so silly, May!'—not that he means to be unkind, but because he gets impatient with her. Oh, I see Billy's companionship has been a great thing for May! John sees it too. And you do, don't you, mother?"

"I'm not sorry now we had to have him here," she admitted, then added: "As boys go, he's better than most; and I'll say this for him, he never answers me back."

"He's a dear boy!" declared Mrs. Dingle. "I often think how his poor mother must have loved him. Ah, here is May!"

"Yes," replied her grandmother; "by the time they've been in and washed their hands tea will be ready."

May disappeared, returning ten minutes later with her grandfather and the boys. Mrs. Brown had cleared away her ironing things and was putting the last touches to the tea-table whilst she kept an eye on her daughter, who was measuring the tea into the tea-pot.

"All right, mother," Mrs. Dingle answered; "I haven't put one more spoonful than you told me to."

"Elizabeth's a capital tea-maker," William Brown remarked, smiling; "she could always put more tea in a spoon without over-filling it than anyone I ever knew."

At that everyone laughed, even Mrs. Brown. So the meal began merrily and went on in the same happy way.

The conversation was mostly about the flower, fruit, and vegetable show which was to be held in the Vicarage grounds that day week. There was to be a prize for the prettiest bunch of wild flowers, for which May intended to compete. Billy said he would help her gather the flowers, but she shook her head.

"Our marrows will grow a lot more in a week," remarked Billy. "I do hope one of us will get the prize, Harold."

"I meant what I said," Billy replied. "Grandfer says your marrow is a better shape than mine," he continued, "and that will be taken into consideration. I went around and looked at all the marrows in the allotment gardens yesterday, and there wasn't one to beat yours, though I did see one that came near doing it."

"Is that the Gibbs who was had up for poaching last winter?" inquired Mrs. Brown. "Yes. I should have thought he was too idle to have a garden."

"He doesn't keep it in good condition," Harold explained; "it's generally full of weeds; but, somehow, he's managed to grow good marrows this year, and he's mighty proud of them."

William Brown was expecting a business letter from Exeter, and, as there was no second postal delivery at Ashleigh during the day, and feeling sure the letter would be at the post office, he had asked Billy to fetch it. The Exeter letter was there, and one, bearing a London postmark, also addressed to "Mr. William Brown." Billy took the two letters straight back to Rowley Cottage, and gave them to his grandfather in the garden.

William Brown read the letter he had expected first, then opened the other, and glanced through it quickly. It seemed to be of a startling nature, for he turned very red and uttered an exclamation of amazement. Then he read the letter a second time, very slowly and carefully, his face exceedingly grave. After that he thought a while.

"Why, Billy," he said at length, "you never told me your mother had an uncle in Scotland."

"I didn't know she had," Billy answered; "that is, I remember her telling me she had an uncle, but she'd lost sight of him and didn't know if he was living or dead. I think she said he was a sea captain."

"Exactly. This letter is from the master of the Institution where you stopped in London. He'd had a letter from a Captain Foster, who says he's your mother's uncle. Captain Foster, who has left the sea and is now living in Glasgow, has only lately learnt of your mother's sad death, and he and his wife, who are a childless couple, are willing to give you a home and do the best they can for you. It's a good offer, Billy, but—well, I don't want to part with you, my boy."

"And I don't want to leave you, Grandfer!" cried Billy. "I—I—oh, it's not to be thought of, is it?"

"I don't know," William Brown said doubtfully; "maybe this Captain Foster can do more for you than I can. Dear me, this is most upsetting! I think I'd better go in and tell Maria, and hear what she has to say."

Left alone, the little boy perched himself on the edge of a wheel-barrow to consider the situation. Would he, indeed, be called upon to leave the home he had learnt to love? The thought that he might be wrung his heart.

"If it rests with Granny I shall have to go," he told himself sadly; "she will be only too glad to get rid of me—she never wanted me here."

His eyes filled with tears as he looked around the garden. How he loved it! What happy days he had spent here with Grandfer and May! He had been looking forward to many more such happy days, but now, perhaps, he would be sent far away. Suddenly he jumped off the wheel-barrow, and hurried towards the house. He would not be kept in suspense; he would find out what was to become of him at once.

Arrived at the back door Billy stopped, his heart sinking despairingly. From the kitchen came the sound of Mrs. Brown's voice, loud and indignant.

"Oh, dear, she's in a temper," thought the little boy. "Perhaps I'd better keep out of her sight."

But he was so anxious that he could not help lingering to listen. Then he had a most wonderful surprise.

"Nonsense!" he heard Mrs. Brown exclaim, "Perfect nonsense! What can he do for Billy more than we can? There's nothing for you to be so upset about that I can see! Write to the man yourself and tell him 'No!' You've the first claim on the boy, for you're his grandfather. There's no reason why we should give him up to any relation of his mother's now."

Billy's heart gave a bound of joy. Then Granny was against sending him away! It was amazing, but true. He rushed into the kitchen, his eyes a-sparkle, his face aglow with delight. Mrs. Brown appealed to him immediately.

"It was," William Brown agreed. "I was only putting it to you, Maria, that this Captain Foster might be able to do more for Billy than I can, and—"

"And I tell you I don't believe it!" interrupted his wife. "Billy's cut out for a gardener, and he's in his right place. I daresay this Captain Foster would want to send him to sea. You write and tell him we can't give the boy up."

"Oh, Granny!" cried Billy. He made a rush at Mrs. Brown, and, clasping her around the neck, kissed her. "I thought you'd be pleased to be rid of me," he said, "but you really want me to stay. Oh, I am glad—I am glad!"

Mrs. Brown gave a rather embarrassed laugh. She made no answer, but her face softened, and her eyes were a little dim as she returned the little boy's kiss.

"Now I know what to do," William Brown remarked, adding: "We shall all sleep the better for having decided this matter to-night."

CHAPTER XII.

CONCLUSION.

WILLIAM BROWN wrote to Captain Foster that same night, and the first thing after breakfast the following morning Billy hastened to the village and posted the letter. Then he went into the post office, where he found Mr. and Mrs. Dingle in earnest conversation, both looking unusually grave.

"Oh, Billy," the latter began, "poor Harold's in trouble. He went to look at his marrow before breakfast and found it gone."

"Yes," she assented, "stolen! Oh, it's really too bad! We've told the policeman what's happened, but it's most improbable he'll be able to find the thief. The marrow must have been taken during the night."

"Yes," agreed John Dingle, "for it was all right last evening—I saw it myself after dusk."

"Out with May somewhere," replied Mrs. Dingle. "He's dreadfully upset about this. But what brings you to the village so early, my dear?"

Billy explained. When he had finished his tale Mrs. Dingle looked at her husband meaningly, and said—

"There! Now what did I say, John? Didn't I tell you mother was growing fond of Billy?"

"Yes, you certainly did," he answered, "and this proves you were right. You're glad to remain at Rowley Cottage, Billy?"

"Oh, Uncle John, I don't know what I should have felt if Granny had said I must go! Of course I knew Grandfer wouldn't want me to go, but I was so afraid Granny would. You can't imagine how glad I was to hear she didn't like the idea of my going! She was quite upset about it. I am so glad, so glad!"

After a little further conversation Billy left to return home. He had not gone far from the village when he heard, someone shouting, and, looking back, saw Harold running after him. He stopped immediately.

"Father said I should overtake you it I ran," Harold said, as he came up. "May and I came home just after you'd left—we'd been to the allotment field again, looking everywhere for my marrow, but of course we couldn't find a trace of it. You've heard what's happened?"

"I'm so sorry," he said simply, his voice full of sympathy; "it's a great shame!"

"I'd give a great deal to know for certain who's had it!" Harold cried fiercely. "I suspect that fellow Gibbs, and I believe father does too, though he doesn't like to say so. Gibbs believes his marrow will be the best exhibited at the show now, but he'll be mistaken! He doesn't know about yours, and we must take care he doesn't!"

"If mine gets the prize we'll divide the money," said Billy. "Five shillings it'll be, won't it?"

"Worth having? I should think so! But—but it wouldn't be fair to you if I took half your prize money."

The boys were walking on side by side now. There was a brief silence, then Harold suddenly exclaimed—

"You're a real brick, Billy. I've always been nasty to you about your gardening tools, and begrudged your having them—you must have seen it, yet you lent me your hand-fork when I broke mine, and—oh, it's been too mean of me! I'm sure if someone had stolen your marrow and I thought I was going to get the prize I shouldn't offer to divide it with you—at least, I don't think I should—"

"Oh, I expect you would!" Billy broke in. "Anyway, if I win the prize we go shares, mind! That's agreed."

The fields on the slope of the hill behind Rowley Cottage were now golden with corn as tall as the boys themselves, and ripening fast under the kisses of the hot August sun. The boys raced down the narrow foot-track behind each other, through the orchard, and into the garden. There they found William Brown whistling light-heartedly as he weeded his asparagus bed. He heard of the loss Harold had had with much concern.

"I can't tell you how sorry I am, Harold," he said; "it's a great disappointment for you. We must watch that Billy's marrow doesn't go in the same way."

But Billy's marrow was undisturbed. It continued to grow and ripen till the morning of the show, when Grandfer cut it and the boys conveyed it between them to the large tent which had been erected on the Vicarage lawn, under which most of the exhibits of flowers, fruit, and vegetables were already on the stalls.

Billy's marrow was put on a stall with a lot of others. The boys had the satisfaction of seeing, at a glance, that it was the best marrow there, for shape, colour, and size. An ill-kept, sullen-looking man who was standing near saw this, too. He shot a scowling look from one boy to the other, and moved away.

"That's Gibbs!" Harold whispered to Billy excitedly. "He's brought his marrow, but it's smaller than yours. I thought it was, but I couldn't be sure till I saw them together. Doesn't he look sold—and guilty?"

"Hush!" admonished Billy, "Someone may hear you. If we're right in what we think we can't prove it, you know."

Gibbs had slunk out of the tent and disappeared. He did not return when the exhibits were being judged, nor did he come near the show again. Apparently his whole interest in it had gone.

The show opened at two o'clock. It was well attended, nearly every one in the parish being present. Mrs. Brown, who seldom left home, was there under the escort of her husband and Billy. She was in high good humour, for Billy's marrow had won the prize; and when she came to the stall on which the wild flowers were being exhibited, there, in the centre, was a beautiful bouquet bearing a card on which was written: "First Prize—May Dingle." She felt, as she said, quite proud to be connected with two prize-winners.

The prizes were distributed by the Vicar. Next day all the vegetable exhibits, by agreement of the exhibitors, were packed carefully and sent off as a gift to the Fleet, whilst the flowers were returned to their owners. May gave her bouquet to her grandmother, and for several days it graced the round table in the middle of the parlour at Rowley Cottage.

Corn harvest was now commencing. Billy took great interest in Farmer Turpin's "reaper and binder," which he thought the most marvellous piece of machinery there could possibly be. One day it arrived to cut the corn in the fields near Rowley Cottage, and he spent hours in watching it as it worked, gathering the corn into a sheaf and cutting the stalks and tying them, then throwing the sheaf out on the ground, and going through the same programme continuously as it went on. Billy followed it till he was tired, then sat down on a big stone near the gateway leading into the road, and watched it from there.

So closely did it chain his attention that he failed to notice a khaki-clad figure coming towards him, and started up in joyful surprise when a well-remembered voice cried—

The next instant he was shaking hands with Tom Turpin, back on leave from France again.

"Is there room for two on that stone?" asked the young soldier, and, Billy assenting eagerly, they sat down together. "I arrived home the day before yesterday," he continued, his blue eyes looking lovingly across the valley to Mount Farm on the opposite hill. "I can tell you it's good to be home, my boy! How beautiful everything is! 'The pastures are clothed with flocks; the valleys also are covered with corn; they shout for joy, they also sing.' This is a blessed land, Billy. Where I have come from there will be no harvest—all is desolation and ruin. Here there is plenty, and oh, the peacefulness of it all!"

There was a note of sadness in Tom's voice, whilst his eyes had a wistful expression in them. For a minute his face was clouded, then it cleared, and he went on—

"Father's behind, talking to your grandfather, but he'll join me presently. Meanwhile, tell me about yourself. I've heard of the great marrow you grew. I wish I'd been home in time to see it. I've just come from your grandfather's garden. It's a picture worth looking at. Your grandfather always grew good vegetables, but this year they're just splendid."

"So I've heard," smiled Tom Turpin; "your grandfather says you've done a lot of real hard work."

"Thanks to your tools!" exclaimed Billy. "I couldn't have done half so much without them. I've taken great care of them, Mr. Turpin; they are as bright as bright!"

"You seem remarkably 'fit,' Billy," he said; "you're rather different now from the timid little chap I remember. You've grown a couple of inches, I should say, and your face is almost as brown as mine. You look happy, too."

"I am happy," Billy said earnestly. "When mother was killed I never thought I should be happy again; but, oh, I am! And things which used to frighten me don't frighten me any longer now. I pray your prayer, 'Be not Thou far from me, O Lord,' and that helps me to be brave—you understand."

"I love being here," Billy continued; "I love the hills, and the river, and the woods, and, most of all, I love Grandfer's garden. It was so wonderful in the spring to see everything coming to life. You see I was never in the country, in the spring, before this year. I suppose that's why I thought it so wonderful. Everything—the river, the woods, the grasses in the fields, seemed to be whispering—always saying the same!"

"Oh, no!" Billy answered. "I'll tell you. I told little May, and she said she could hear it, too. It was 'The gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ, our Lord.' Just that, over and over again."

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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Grandfer's wonderful garden

IT WAS NOT LONG BEFORE HAROLD AND BILLY WERE BUSILY

ENGAGED IN MAKING A BONFIRE.

Grandfer's

Wonderful Garden

BY

ELEANORA H. STOOKE

Author of "Little Maid Marigold," "Little Soldiers All,"

"Whilst Father was Fighting," etc., etc.

R.T.S., 4, Bouverie Street, London, E.C.4.

CONTENTS.