the whole, as quiet and docile as a great sheep?
Well, even while the spring lasted, Leonard and Effie had many a long delightful ramble in their little caravan, and were soon as well known all over the country for miles around as the letter-carrier himself, and that is saying a good deal.
But in the bonnie month of May Captain Lyle, and Mrs Lyle as well, had to make a long, long journey south. In fact, they were going all the way to London, and in those days this was not only a slow journey but a dangerous one as well, for many parts of the road were infested by foot-pads, who cared not whom they killed so long as they succeeded in getting their money and their valuables.
Farewells were spoken with many tears and caresses, and away went the parents at last, and Leonard and Effie were left alone.
When they had fairly gone, poor Effie began to cry again.
“Oh, Leonie!” she said, “the house seems so lonely now, so cold and still, with only the ticking of the dreadful clocks.”
But Leonard answered, and said, – “Why, Effie dear, haven’t you me? And am I not big enough to protect you? Come along out and see the Menagerie.”
It was not half so lonesome here, at least, so they thought. They were high above the woods, and the sun shone very brightly, and all their curious pets seemed doubly amusing to-day, so before long both were laughing as merrily as if they were not orphans for the time being.
Three days passed away, and on the morning of the fourth, when, after breakfast, old Peter the butler came shuffling in, Leonard said, —
“Now, Peter, of course you are aware that I am now master of the house of Glen Lyle?”
Peter bowed and bowed and bowed, but I think he was laughing quietly to himself.
“Very well, Peter; straighten yourself up, please, and listen. Miss Lyle here – ”
“That’s me,” said Effie, in proud defiance of grammar.
“And myself,” continued Leonard, “are going away for a week in our caravan in search of – ahem! the picturesque.”
“Preserve us a’!” cried Peter, turning his eyes heavenwards. “What’ll your parents say if I allow it?”
“We will write to them, Peter. Don’t you worry. We start to-morrow. You will look after the Menagerie till we return. And we will want your assistance to-day to help us to pack.”
“Will naething prevail upo’ ye to stop at hame?” cried Peter, wringing his hands.
“Nothing. I’m master, don’t forget that.” This from Leonard.
“And I’m mistress,” said Effie.
So poor Peter had to give in.
They spent a very busy afternoon, but next morning the caravan was brought to the door, the brass work on Don’s new harness being polished till it looked like gold. Effie sprang lightly in, Ossian, the big deerhound, who stood nearly as high as Don, went capering about, for he was to be one of the party.
Up jumped Leonard. Crack went his whip, and off they all were in a hand-clap.
And poor old Peter fell on his knees and prayed for their safety, till on a turn of the road the woods seemed to swallow them up.
“Now we’re free! It’s glorious, isn’t it, Effie?”
“It’s delightful.”
“Aren’t you glad you’ve come?”
“Yes, aren’t you?”
“Yes. Which way shall we go?”
“Oh, away and away and away, through the forests and fens, through the woods and the wilds, on and on and on.”
“I say,” said Leonard, after a pause, “it would be a good thing to give Don quite a deal of his own way, and if he wants particularly to go along any road, just to let him go.”
“O yes, that will be such fun. I’m so happy, hungry. I feel it coming on now.”
“Well, by-and-bye we’ll dine. Agnes made such a splendid pie; it will last us quite two days.”
At noon they found themselves in a dark pine wood, the bare stems of the trees looking like the pillars supporting the roof of some majestic cavern. Here they stopped and unlimbered, because there was a little stream where Don and the deerhound could drink, besides nice, long, green grass for the donkey.
They had a portion of the pie for dinner, and it was more delicious, they thought, than anything they had ever eaten. So thought Ossian. But of course hunger is sweet sauce.
Then they tied Don to the wheel of the cart, and hand in hand went off to cull wild flowers. They gathered quite a garland, and put this round Don’s neck on their return, then turned him loose again to eat for an hour, while Leonard took a volume from a little book-shelf, and read to Effie a few chapters of a beautiful tale.
But the sun began to decline in the west, so they now put Don to, and off they went once more.
They came to cross roads soon, and as Don evinced a desire to turn to the right, they allowed him to do so.
The sun sank, and set at last, and they hurried on more quickly now, for though they intended to sleep in the caravan, still they wanted to be near a house. But gloaming fell, and the wood grew deeper and darker, so at last Leonard, telling his sister not to be frightened, drew in off the road, so that the caravan was closely hidden among spruce trees.
There was light enough, and no more, to gather grass for Don, who was tied fast to the branch of a tree. Ossian was fastened to the axle so that he might keep guard over all, and Leonard and Effie prepared for bed, determined to get up as soon as it was sunrise.
This being their first night out, and the place being so lonesome and drear, they were afraid to have a light, lest it might attract evil-disposed persons to the caravan, although it was all forest land around them.
They were sitting quietly talking over the events of the day, when suddenly the voices of people chanting a hymn fell on their ears, and made them quake with dread.
“Who can it be?” whispered Effie, clinging to her brother.
“They cannot be bad people,” he said boldly, “singing a hymn; bad people do not sing hymns. I will go and see. I’ll take Ossian with me.”
“And I, too, will go,” cried Effie. So hand in hand, with the faithful dog by their side, and guided by the solemn song that rose on the night air at intervals, they walked slowly onwards through the wood.
All at once, on rounding a spruce thicket, the light of a fire gleamed over their faces and figures. They would have retreated, for they had come to see, not to be seen; but from a group of wild-looking men and women who were gathered round the log fire in this clearing, a little gipsy girl not bigger than Effie sprang up and rushed towards them.
She was bare-footed and bare-legged, and her black eyes sparkled like diamonds in the firelight. Round her head and shoulders she wore a ragged little tartan shawl.
“Walk gently,” she whispered, or rather hissed. “Hush, hush! do not speak. Granny is dying.”
She took Leonard’s half-unwilling hand as she spoke, and led them forward to the light.
There was silence for a little while, for all eyes were turned upon the new-comers.
Gipsies all undoubtedly, and of the very lowest caste, dark, swarthy, ragged, and wild-looking.
Lying with her head in the lap of a tall woman was an aged crone, her face almost as black as a negro’s with age and exposure.
The fire blazed higher, its gleams reaching to the highest pine trees, and lighting up the faces of all around.
It was a strange, a weird scene, almost awful in its impressiveness. Once again the voices rose and swelled on the night air. Even bold Leonard felt his heart beat faster, while Effie’s hand trembled in his.
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