"But he will be," Mrs. Barton told her reassuringly; "I do really believe he is in safety now!"
Jane sighed deeply, but she dried her tears. After her mistress had gone downstairs, she stole softly into Jack's room, and found him sleeping the heavy sleep of utter exhaustion. She dropped on her knees by the bedside, and prayed fervently that God would restore her other little charge to her care. She had forgotten that Theodore had ever worried her, had ever been troublesome or disobedient; she remembered only his good qualities, his brave spirit, his warm loving heart; and it wrung her faithful soul to think of him lost—disappeared in so short a while, and in such a mysterious way.
"God bless him! God keep him, and send him home again!" were the words she kept repeating; and presently she arose from her knees, and went downstairs, her spirit calmed, to await with her mistress whatever news might come.
[CHAPTER XVIII.]
IN THE CARAVAN.
WHEN Mr. Barton started afresh in search of his little son it was with a very heavy heart, for he imagined that there was small likelihood of his gaining any information about Theodore that night; but he was far too troubled and restless to remain inactive, and therefore returned to the spot from which the boy had disappeared.
It was eleven o'clock when he left the farm, so that it was long past midnight before he reached the white-washed cottage, and climbing the hedge which divided the kitchen-garden from the road, sought the place where the fox-gin still remained, as he and Mr. Fry had left it more than two hours before. Once again he examined the iron trap, and carefully searched the surrounding ground. He was moving away, meaning to ascertain if the owner of the cottage had returned, when the sound of footsteps in the road made him pause and listen. A second later the footsteps stopped directly outside the hedge where Mr. Barton stood.
"This is where I found him," said a strange voice. "'Tis cruel work I call it, setting fox-gins."
"What! you found him in Peter Blake's garden!" cried another voice, which fell familiarly on the listener's ears. "You don't say so! Well, I always knew the old man was a cross-grained chap, and I've heard him grumble about the foxes often enough; but I never thought he did a little trapping on his own account."
"Then you didn't make the gin for him?" asked the strange voice.