“Where are you going?” said the smith.
“To Quainton,” replied Roger; “we are going to see the Blooming.”
“Why, so are we,” said the man. “It is late for you children to be on the road. If I had known all this I would have shod your horse first. You had better wait for us.”
“Oh, no,” replied Phœbe, “we have first to go to our aunt’s. It would frighten her greatly to have us come so late.”
Roger looked down the road. It was certainly late in the afternoon, but the road was direct, and so he said good-by, and off old Dobbin trotted.
It now seemed as if the mile out of the way had stretched itself to two, and it was fast growing dark when they reached a mile-stone three miles from Quainton. Little Phœbe was certain they should be lost riding on in the dark; but not so Roger.
“There is no fear of that,” said he stoutly, “we will meet others going.”
And Roger was right. The nearer they got to Quainton the greater became the throng of people, and they were one and all going to the Blooming.
They came from the lanes, from over the fields, out of every hamlet, from every road. They were in wagons; they were on foot and on horse-back; two old ladies were in a sedan-chair, and at last they overtook an old man carried like “a lady to London,” by two great sons. As it grew dark and darker, and no stars came out to brighten the sky, wandering lights began to shine forth and torches, candles, lanterns, gleamed out on the roadside and flickered in the bushes and among the trees. There was in every group much talking and discussion; and it was easy to be seen that most of the people were of Caleb’s opinion, and doubted the new way of arranging the year; but it was equally clear that they meant the slip from the Glastonbury thorn to decide the matter for them.
Roger kept close behind a travelling-carriage which was attended by two horsemen carrying torches, and greatly to his joy it went into Quainton and passed directly by his aunt’s home.