They were a pair, without doubt. No one could have known them a little way off, not even their father or nurse—well, not nurse certainly, although their father might, if he had glanced at them a second time; for love's eyes are keen, and not mother-love itself is deeper, stronger, truer than a good father's for his trusting children.
Bargee slept soundly on his couch of empty corn-sacks; the lad was still lost in his story; the brown horse went slower and slower, pausing now and again to snatch a mouthful of grass from the bank beside his feet, until at length he stopped altogether, and, settling himself comfortably on three legs, he shut his eyes and prepared to follow his master's example.
The little ones were now some way in advance of the boat; but when they looked back and observed that boat and horse had come to a standstill, they agreed that they also might rest awhile, and joyfully threw themselves down upon the soft, cool meadow grass, taking good care to keep well out of sight of those other two afloat upon the canal.
"I's hungry—werry," said Joan, with a tired sort of sigh. "Isn't it never near dinner-time yet, Darby?"
"Yes, I think it must be by this time," replied Darby, looking knowingly in the direction of the sun, as he had seen Mr. Grey and Green the gardener do. "And if it isn't it ought, for I'm hungry too. Come, and we'll eat some of our biscuits and things."
"But there's no meat or potatoes or puddin'. It won't be real dinner wifout meat," grumbled Joan.
"Well, we can't have real dinner—pilgrims on a long journey never do—but we can make believe that we have. Won't that do instead, Joan?" asked Darby anxiously.
"Yes, it'll do quite well—to-day," answered Joan, jumping up and beginning in true housewifely fashion to set out their repast.
From each child's pocket came a crumpled pocket-handkerchief, not very large, and, if the truth must be told, not over clean. These Joan spread on the grass to serve as a tablecloth. Then Darby proceeded to distribute the rations for the midday meal—to each a tiny tart, a slice of seed-cake, one biscuit, and a mellow russet pear.
"Now, isn't that a lovely dinner?" he demanded proudly; "and there's nearly—not quite, but almost—as much more for tea," he added, peering into the depths of the old reticule which was slung, haversack fashion, across his shoulders.