Part 2

But he knew that she was gone. For the train was moving, and they were off. Jane was out of sight.

Jock felt himself in a new world—new and lonely. He sat like a little image, gazing out on the rushing landscape, seeing and hearing nothing that went on. By-and-by it dawned upon him that the elderly gentleman, Mr. Royle, was seated in the corner just opposite himself, and that the lady at the opposite end of the carriage seemed to be scolding her maid. Jock vaguely wondered what it could all be about.

And—after what felt like a very long interval—he found himself looking up into the face of the elderly man opposite. He met a pair of eyes gazing quietly into his own, such very blue eyes, and such kind ones.

Mr. Royle leant forward. "Feel cold, my boy?"

Jock said "No—" without thinking. He was cold, very cold all over, and shivering, but he had not found it out.

"Feel queer?" Jock nodded this time. "Want something to eat?" Jock shook his head.

"Ah, well—never mind. You'll soon be hungry—a little chap like you! If you were seventy years old, now, that would make a difference."

Jock could not help smiling.

"Had to say a lot of good-byes this morning?"

One good-bye, not a lot. At least, the lot did not count. But Jock could not say this.

Mr. Royle stood up, letting his wraps slide down on the floor.

His wife called out—"What are you doing?"

But he paid no attention. He took hold of Jock, and made him lie flat on the cushioned seat, covering him with a thick travelling-rug and putting under his head a rolled-up shawl for a pillow.

"That's better," the kind voice said. "Now—mind—you are to go to sleep. Don't think and fret. Things won't be half so bad as they seem just now. It will all come right in the end."

He patted the boy's head and went back to his seat.

Jock gave one grateful look, and shut his eyes. The train made such a roaring that at first he could attend to nothing else. But soon he grew used to it, and began to lose himself in half-dreams. The night had been a short one, and he had eaten very little breakfast. Sounds grew distant, and soon he was off. For two full hours he never stirred. Then he woke up slowly, wondering at first where he could be, till recollection dawned, and he sat up.

"Better?" Mr. Royle asked.

"I'm quite well," Jock said.

"That's right. Now will you have some sandwiches?"

And Jock found that he actually could enjoy them. The queer sick feelings were gone, and, though the great sense of loss was with him still, he could meet it now with more courage.

VI. SOME PUZZLING THINGS

THE journey to Lethmere West was long and tiresome. After luncheon, they had to get out and to wait for an hour at a station for their next train. Mr. Royle gave Jock some picture-papers, and presently Mrs. Royle came up, and began asking him questions. How old was he? Had he been often to see his Grannie? Didn't he like country better than town?

"You're going to live there now," she said.

Jock shook his head.

"Of course I mean while your parents are in India. They won't come back in a hurry." Mrs. Royle did not mean to be unkind. She just said what happened to slip into her head.

"Mother said she'd come back as soon as ever she could."

"Oh, that means nothing. It's what they always say. You can make up your mind to three or four years."

Jock fired up. "She won't. She won't. I know she won't. She—promised."

"Why, you're a regular little spitfire." The lady seemed amused.

"Come here, my boy," a quiet voice said from the other side of the waiting-room.

Jock obeyed, swelling and wrathful still, and Mr. Royle's hand came on his shoulder.

"Don't you mind what other people say. Remember—you can trust your mother. If she said she would come home as soon as she could, she will do it."

"But—but—but—" Jock could hardly get out the words, and he looked across at Mrs. Royle. "'She' says—"

"Never mind. Other people don't understand. You know what your mother said, and nothing else matters."

Jock leant against the shoulder of Mr. Royle's fur-lined coat, and felt a little comforted.

"And I'm going to tell you something else, my boy. Try to recollect it. The first few days will perhaps seem endless to you—each day like a whole week. But that won't last. After the first week, the days will move faster; and after the first month, they will begin to run; and after the first three months, they will gallop. See?"

"Will they?" It seemed to Jock like years already since the early morning.

"Take my word for it—they will. You will make no end of new friends; and you will have no end of fun."

"I'm going to have lessons at Mr. Moore's."

"Ah, yes—and you'll find boys there. A girl too—queer little fish!" This was murmured, and perhaps was not meant for Jock's ears. "You're not a mischievous boy, are you?—particularly."

Jock laughed. He wanted very much to ask why the girl should be called "a queer little fish," but he did not venture.

"Don't let her lead you into mischief, that's all. Keep a sane head of your own. You seem to me to be a sensible lad. Got any sisters?"

"No; it's only me."

"Ah—well—it's a mercy if they haven't managed to spoil you."

Mr. Royle went back to his paper, and Jock found himself with plenty to think about.

Slowly as time passed, the second train at length was due, and once more they were off. It had grown extremely cold, and, though very still, the air was piercing. Overhead in a clear sky some small crimson clouds lay near the horizon, and the telegraph posts went by much more deliberately than with the earlier train.

Three or four more stations, at each of which they stopped, and then "Lethmere East" appeared in big letters. This was the nearest station to Lethmere West, two miles distant. And when they drew up, there was Aunt Judith—trim and smart in figure, not tall but very upright, with dark hair and bright dark eyes, and a very wide awake manner.

"So—here you all are," she said briskly. "How kind of you both to undertake such a troublesome charge. I hope Jock has behaved properly. Oh, thanks, my mother is better. Well, Jock—how are you?"

She gave him a kiss, a rapid, bird-like peck on his cheek. Jock remembered those kisses of hers, and he wanted to rub it off, but didn't.

"Quite well?" she asked, but she did not wait for an answer. "We must be off—it is getting cold. A real, sharp frost."

"Too horribly cold," complained Mrs. Royle. "And such delays. I thought we should never arrive."

Outside the station they found the Royles' large motor-car waiting, and near it Aunt Judith's pony-carriage. Part of Jock's belongings were taken, and the rest would have to follow next day. Judith told him to jump in, and followed, taking the reins. Mr. Royle came close to shake hands with Jock.

"Good-bye," he said heartily. "Mind you come and see me some day soon, my boy. I shall look out for you. Come and tell me how you are getting on."

Aunt Judith opened her eyes rather widely. The car spun away at a fine pace, and the brown pony trotted calmly after. "Now, what made Mr. Royle say that?" questioned Aunt Judith. "I hope you didn't ask to go, Jock?"

"No, I didn't. 'Course I didn't, Aunt Judith. He was—awfully kind."

"I'm glad you didn't. Yes, he is a very kind man. And you've got through your journey all right. Are you warm?"

She pulled the rug up higher, and tucked it round him, and they went on at a steady jog-trot, from which not all Aunt Judith's efforts could rouse the pony. Evidently he was used to having his own way. She talked a great deal to him, and flicked her whip perpetually, and he shook his ears as if in response, but he chose his own pace.

When they drew near to Lethmere West it was nearly dark, and only dim glimpses of hedges and fields could be had, and then of a good-sized garden, and, lastly, of an open front door, lighted from within. Jock remembered the butler who stood there, a stout, middle-aged man. Aunt Judith bustled him in, and told him to stay by the fire in the morning-room, while she ran up to see her mother.

Then she came down to say that Mrs. Baynes was sound asleep, and that Jock should have his supper at once and go to bed. While he ate, she kept flitting in and out, talking most of the time. Then she called Emma, the housemaid, a rosy, good-tempered-looking girl, and told her to take Jock to his room, and to look after him. It was a pretty room on the first floor, with pink curtains and a pink coverlet, and Jock's things for the night were already unpacked.

"I can do everything for myself please," he said, when the maid lingered. "I'd rather, please."

"Well, don't be long, and I'll come back presently, and put out your light. You're tired, ain't you? Get to bed, quick—there's a good boy."

Jock was very tired, and very soon he was ready for bed—all except his prayers, which he put off till the last. Always, until to-day, his mother had come to him, for she had never left off that habit of infant days. Now for the first time, as he knelt by the little bed, he knew what it was to be "alone." He tried to keep back the tears which kept coming, and he tried to say his prayers as usual, but it was very hard. After two or three minutes, he crept into bed and hid his face under the clothes, and when Emma came back, she supposed him to be asleep. So she turned down the light and went away.

And desolation crept over Jock. It was like a big black cloud covering him. He was utterly alone. His mother was far away—out of reach.

But, mercifully, he was too tired to keep awake. And don't you think that, as he lay, one of God's dear angels stooped softly down to whisper comfort to the lonely child? Somehow a recollection came of his mother's words that last evening—only yesterday, but it seemed so long ago—and of the kind Heavenly Friend Who would always, always, be at his side. And with that thought, Jock dropped asleep, his cheeks still wet. Soon he was smiling.

For a lovely dream had come. He was back at home with Mummie, and her arms were round him, and she was saying with a gentle smile—"It wasn't so bad after all—was it, darling?"

VII. A WHITE FAIRYLAND

NO matter how dismal things may look overnight, long hours of sleep do make a difference, especially if one is only eight years old. Jock never once opened his eyes till broad daylight, and then he started suddenly wide awake. He sat up and took a good look round.

It was a very pretty little room. Somebody had been at pains to make it nice. In one corner stood a small table, with a little writing-desk on it, and a bookcase above, half-full of books, but with space for more books of his own. He gazed with eager eyes, taking in one thing after another.

Then he saw that the window-panes were covered with frost-pictures. There were trees in rows, and trees singly, and houses, and even people—all sketched by the busy fingers of Jack Frost. He had seen something of the kind before, but nothing equal to this. Jumping out of bed, he ran to the window.

And such a scene burst on him!

Below lay a small lawn covered by a thin white carpet, and in the centre of the lawn was a big tree, it, too, being dressed in white. From its topmost to its undermost twigs it was clothed in pure white. Jock supposed that a fall of snow had come in the night. But this was not snow, it was hoarfrost—such a thick hoarfrost that it lay along the bigger boughs three-quarters of an inch deep. And beyond the lawn were clumps of evergreen bushes, and each leaf of those bushes carried its own white trimming.

It was a fairyland scene, and Jock could not turn his eyes away. He had seen snow at home, pretty enough at first, when great flakes came floating down, even though they fell through a murky atmosphere. But he knew how black and grimy they soon became. Anything like this vision of purity he had never known.

When his toes complained of the cold floor, his first thought was that he could not possibly go back to bed. He must dress at once, and run out to see things for himself.

A brass clock on the mantelpiece spoke, and it said in very hurried tones—EIGHT. Jock was rather astonished, for at home he had always got up at seven. He did not know that Aunt Judith had ordered that he should not be aroused, but should sleep on. She might be a trifle short in manner and speech, but she had noted the boy's white face, and when Emma came to say how soundly he was sleeping, she said—"Let him rest till half-past eight. Have him ready by nine, and he shall breakfast with me."

A bath had been put ready, with plenty of cold water, to which he was used. He went in for a good splashing, and dressed with all possible speed, for he was eager to get out of doors. At home he had always been free to race in and out of the back-garden whenever he pleased, and it never entered his mind that perhaps here he ought to ask leave.

He met no one on the stairs or in the hall, and the front door stood invitingly open. Before him lay the front drive, with three or four elm-trees in the centre, and away to the right was a larger lawn. He walked down the drive, following its bend, and then turned sharply off to the right, racing across the big lawn towards a small pond which drew his attention.

All round the pond were heaped-up rocks, where, in summer, flowers grew abundantly. No flowers were to be seen now, but only leaves dressed in white, and the water at its edges was frozen hard. Jock stooped to examine it, and with his fingers broke off a piece of ice, nearly overbalancing himself as he did so, which might have meant a second cold bath.

He was so excited that he danced about on the slippery grass, quite forgetful of the fact that he had had no breakfast. It did not occur to him that people might be puzzled, if no one knew where he was gone. So he wandered round the pond, and on towards a wide grassy ditch, called a "haw-haw," dividing the garden from a field. The sun shone brightly, and millions of tiny ice-needles on grass and on leaves flashed forth gleams of light in response to the sun's kisses.

"Oh-h!" Jock said to himself in a wordless rapture. He stood still, and again murmured—"Oh—h!"

"What's your name?" demanded a shrill little voice.

Jock found himself facing a girl just beyond the haw-haw, standing on the slope of the field. He stared instead of answering. She was very slight, with long thin legs like sticks, and an extremely short frock, and tiny hands, ungloved. A cloth cap was stuck jauntily on one side of her head, while below it hung wisps of black hair. The face was small, with a pointed chin, and the black eyes roved everywhere, but came constantly back to Jock.

[Illustration: "WHAT'S YOUR NAME?" DEMANDED A SHRILL LITTLE VOICE]

"I s'pose you're the new little boy," she remarked.

Jock felt insulted. "Little" indeed. Though not tall for his age, he was the bigger of the two.

"You've got red hair," she went on.

"It isn't red," protested Jock, but she ignored this.

"Mine's black. I wish it was nice and curly like yours. Stop—I'll come."

She retreated some paces, then took a run and cleared the ditch in fine style, landing close to her new acquaintance, at whom she looked with interest. "You haven't told me your name."

"I'm Jock Munro."

She nodded, and Jock asked in his turn, "What's yours?"

"I'm Mousie Moore. Dad called me 'Mousie' when I was a baby, 'cause I was such a wee thing, and they all do. I'm Phœbe really, and sometimes I'm called 'Fee.' And the boys are Tom and Hugh and Artie. And Bertha is our baby. How old are you?"

"I'm just eight."

"Is that all?"—in a superior tone. "Why, I'm nine and a quarter. Isn't it jolly your being here?"

Jock was silent. In the midst of it all he suddenly—remembered. A lump came into his throat.

The slim-legged maiden studied him closely.

"Never mind," she said consolingly. "'I'll' take care of you."

Jock felt his manliness at stake. To be taken up thus protectingly by a slip of a girl, smaller than himself, was rather too much.

Mousie came close, and, to his astonishment, imprinted a kind, though patronizing kiss on his cheek.

Jock promptly scoured it off.

"And we're going to see lots and lots of you," Mousie continued, undisturbed. "You're going to have lessons with the boys—only not to-day. And we'll do heaps and heaps of things together. I say—there's the gong. Hurry." She flung out her little claw-like hands. "Miss Baynes is most frightfully puncshal. Run—scamper—fly!—don't stop a moment."

And Jock obediently fled, though he rather resented being ordered about by so small a person, who wasn't even a boy.

VIII. THE MOORE FAMILY

THEIR house was just two cottages thrown into one, with a little garden round it. In front lay a small drawing-room and a smaller dining-room, and the schoolroom behind looked out on a bed of cabbages. On the walls hung various pictures of horses and dogs, and a square centre table rejoiced in an ink-bespattered table-cloth which had once been green.

Mr. Moore's work in this tiny village, even with the addition of some help given to the old Rector at Lethmere East, left him time for the education of his own children, and he often had one or two other boys to teach with them. Had he been a strong man—which he was not—he would not have undertaken so light a charge.

His one extra pupil of late had been Tom Moore, a nephew of his own, a delicate lad sent here because he was not robust enough for ordinary school-life. Tom looked older than his years, sitting at the table with hunched-up shoulders, and eyes glued to a book.

Opposite to him fidgeted Hugh, a merry-faced boy, about Jock's age. On a third side of the table a small, solid boy had perched himself in a high chair, from which he gazed complacently about with wide placid eyes; and the small girl on the rug was shaped after the same pattern, both being plump, broad, and happy. For Artie or Bertha to cry and be cross was an almost unknown event.

Into this scene, suddenly, burst Mousie.

"He's all right," she cried ecstatically. "He'll 'do.'" She had heard Captain Royle—only son of Jock's new travelling-friend—speak one day of a young fellow in precisely those words. The phrase had captured her fancy—the more so since Captain Royle was her hero—and she had at once adopted it for her own use. "Tom—do you hear?"

Tom looked vacantly up from his book.

"Tom—I say! Jock is all right. He's awfully nice. I like him ever so much. And he and me are going to be friends."

She counted on her fingers carefully. "There's you and Hugh. And there's Artie and Bertha. And now there's going to be Me and Jock."

Tom's eyes wandered back to the open page. "Well—why not? You're welcome."

"But there isn't any 'not.' It's settled. And he's awfully nice. What are you reading?"

"Spanish Armada."

"Oh dear—and Dad wants me to read that too. Tom—" and she put on her most coaxing face—"won't you tell me all about it? I'd like that ever so much better than reading to myself."

"Uncle wouldn't like it. He wants you to read."

Mousie sighed. She was not fond of hunting out history for herself, and much preferred to be saved the trouble. But Tom was a real lover of history, and he delighted in picturing to himself the brave deeds of Englishmen in days gone by. Mr. Moore found it no easy matter to get knowledge into the giddy heads of Mousie and Hugh, while he found real pleasure in teaching Tom, who was an unusually thoughtful and clever lad.

Mousie had her lessons with the boys, and even little Bertha was constantly in the schoolroom, playing with her toys and never giving any trouble.

The door opened, and in came Mr. Moore, with a hand on Jock's shoulder. A thin, fragile-looking man was the curate, with a big forehead and a cheery voice.

"Here, boys," he said. "Here's Jock."

Tom shuffled to his feet, while Hugh held genially out a grimy little paw, lately used for delving in the coal-scuttle after a lost pencil. Artie slowly scrambled to the ground, and came forward, beaming.

"Do you like nengines?" he asked, fixing round blue eyes on Jock. "When I'm a man—" and he smiled more broadly—"I'm going to be a nengine-driver."

"'I' mean to be a soldier, like my Dad," Jock promptly announced.

"I don't know what I'm going to be," meditated Hugh.

"An Ignoramus, my boy, with a very large capital I—if you don't get on faster than you've done lately," Mr. Moore remarked. "Jock beats you in height. Which is the older?"

Notes being compared, it was proved that Jock had the advantage by six months.

"But I'm taller than Mousie, Dad," protested Hugh.

"Mousie always was a shrimp. Now put your books away. The rest of this day is to be a holiday, in honour of Jock."

"Whoop," shouted Hugh.

"Keep within bounds, all of you, and keep out of mischief. You must teach Jock where he may go, and where he may not. Understand—boys?"

A general "Yes" answered.

"But Jock must come back to luncheon with me," Miss Baynes said. She had followed Mr. Moore and Jock into the schoolroom. "Jock, do you understand? You will be allowed to go about in the place—but you must keep within bounds. You must keep to rules. Do you understand? And—can I depend on you?"

"Yes, Aunt Judith."

Mousie danced wildly round the table. "Oh, loverly! A whole afternoon—and half a whole morning. Tom, do put away those horrid books and let's have fun."

Tom kept his seat, despite her pulling. "I've got to finish this," he said.

But Mousie gave him no peace, until she had her way.

IX. FORBIDDEN FRUIT

THE first two or three weeks of Jock's new life at Lethmere West went by smoothly. As Mr. Royle had foretold, the hours passed with increasing speed, and things became more and more full of interest. Aunt Judith, though not very fond of boys, was really kind, and Grannie was delightful.