that it would be nicer if Jock went with me.”
“I knew it did not mean that,” said Jock, hanging his mischievous black head a little, as he felt her shudder; “but I thought it would be such fun to be Columbus.”
“And then? Oh! my boys, what a fearful thing! Thank God I have you here.”
“I wasn’t frightened,” said Jock, with uplifted head; “we could both row, couldn’t we, Armie? and the tide was going out, and it was so jolly; it seemed to take us just where we wanted to go, out to that great rock, you know, mother, that Bobus called the Asses’ Bridge.”
Carey knew that the current at the mouth of the river did, at high tide, carry much drift to the base of this island, and she could understand how her two boys had been floated thither. Jock went on—
“We had a boat-hook, and I pulled up to the island; I did, mother, and I made fast the boat to a little stick, and we went out to explore the island.”
“It has a crater in the top, mother, and we think it must be an instinct volcano,” said Armine, looking up sleepily.
“And there were such lots of jolly little birds,” went on Jock.
“Never mind that now. What happened?”
“Why, the brute of a boat got away,” said Jock, much injured, “when I’d made her ever so fast. She pulled up the stick, I’m sure she did, for I can tie a knot as well as Pete.”
“So you could not get away?”
“No, and we’d got nothing to eat but chocolate creams and periwinkles, and Armie wouldn’t look at them, and I don’t think I could while they were alive. So I hoisted a signal of distress, made of my tie, for we’d lost our pocket-handkerchiefs. I was afraid they would think we were pirates, and not venture to come near us, for we’d only got black flags, and it was a very, very long time, but at last, just as it got a little darkish, and Armie was crying—poor little chap—that steamer came by that always goes between Porthole and Kyvemouth on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I hailed and I hailed, and they saw or heard, and sent a boat and took us on board. The people all came and looked at us, and one of them said I was a plucky little chap; he did, mother, and that I’d the making of an admiral in me; and a lady gave us such a jolly paper of sandwiches. But you see the steamer was going to Porthole, and the captain said he could not anyhow put back to Kyve, but he must take us on, and we must get back by train.”
Mother Carey understood this, for the direct line ran to Porthole, and there was a small junction station whence a branch ran to Kyvemouth, from which Kyve St. Clements was some three miles distant.
“Were you carried on?” she asked.
“Well, yes, but we meant it,” said Jock. “I remembered the boat. I knew father would say we must buy another, so I asked the captain what was the price of one, for Armine and I had each got half-a-sovereign.”
“How was that?”
“An old gentleman the day before was talking to Mr. Acton. I think he is some great swell, for he has got a yacht, and servants, and a carriage, and lots of things; and he said, ‘What! are those poor Brownlow’s boys? bless me!’ and he tipped us each. Allen and Bobus were to go with Mr. Acton and have a sail in his yacht, but they said we should be too many, so we thought we’d get a new boat, but the Captain—”
“Said your money would go but a little way,” put in Caroline.
“He laughed!” said Jock, as a great offence; “and said that was a matter for our governor, and we had better go home and tell as fast as we could. There was a train just starting when we got in to Porthole, and somebody got our tickets for us, and Armie went fast off to sleep, and I, when I came to think about it, thought we would not get out at the junction, but come on home at once, Mother Carey, and tell you all about it. When Armie woke—why, he’s asleep now—he said he would rather come home than to Kyve.”
“Then you travelled all night?”
“Yes, there was a jolly old woman who made us a bed with her shawl, only I tumbled off three times and bumped myself, and she gave us gooseberries, and cake, and once when we stopped a long time a porter got us a cup of tea. Then when we came to where they take the tickets, I think the man was going to make a row, but the guard came up and told him all about it, and I gave him my two half-sovereigns, and he gave me back fourteen shillings change, for he said we were only half-price and second class. Then when once I was in London,” said Jock, as if his foot was on his native heath, “of course I knew what to be at.”
“Have you had nothing to eat?”
“We had each a bun when we got out at Charing Cross, but I’m awfully hungry, mother!”
“I should think so. Janet, my dear, go and order some breakfast for them.”
“And,” said Janet, “must not the others be dreadfully frightened about them at Kyve?”
That question startled her mother into instant action.
“Of course they must! Poor Clara! poor Allen! They must be in a dreadful state. I must telegraph to them at once.”
She lifted Armine off gently to her bed, scarcely disturbing him, twisted up her hair in summary fashion, and the dress, which her friends had dreaded her seeing, was on, she hardly knew how, as she bade old nurse see to Jock’s washing, dressing, and making himself tidy, and then amazed the other ladies by running into the drawing-room crying breathlessly—
“I must telegraph to the Actons,” and plunging to the depths of a drawer in the davenport.
“Caroline, your cap!”
For it was on the back of the head that had never worn a cap before. And not only then, but for the most part whenever they met, those tears and caresses, that poor Mother Carey so much feared, were checked midway by the instinct that made Aunt Ellen run at her with a great pin and cry—
“Caroline, your cap.”
She was still, after having had it fixed, kneeling down, searching for a form for telegraphing, when the door was opened, and in came Colonel Brownlow, looking very pale and fearfully shocked.
“Ellen!” he began, “how shall I ever tell that poor child? Here is Mr. Acton.”
But at that moment up sprang Mother Carey, and as Mr. Acton entered the room she leapt forward—
“Oh! I was just going to telegraph! They are safe! they are here! Jock, Jock!”
And downstairs came tumbling and rushing that same little imp, while the astonishment of his uncle and aunt only allowed them to utter the one word, “John!”
Mr. Acton drew a long breath, and said, “You have given us a pretty fright, boy.”
“Here’s the paper,” added Carey; “telegraph to Clara at once. Ring the bell, Jock; I’ll send to the office.”
All questions were suspended while Mr. Acton wrote the telegram, and then it appeared that the boat had been picked up empty, with Armine’s pocket-handkerchief full of shells in it, and the boys had been given up for lost, it having been concluded that, if they had been seen, the boat also would have been taken in tow, and not cast loose to tell the tale. The two elder boys were almost broken-hearted, and would have been wild to come back to their mother, had it not been impossible to leave poor little Barbara, who clung fast to them, as the only shreds left to her of home and protection. They would at least be comforted in the space of a quarter of an hour!
Carey was completely herself and full of vigour while Mr. Acton was there, consoling him when he lamented not having taken better care, and refusing when he tried to persuade her to accompany him back to Kyve. Neither would Janet return with him, feeling it impossible to relax such watch as she could keep over the Magnum Bonum papers, even though she much longed for her brothers.
“I should insist on her going,” said Aunt Ellen, “after all she has gone through.”
“I don’t think I can,” said Carey. “You would not send away your Jessie?”
Ellen