"Yes, yes," said Miss Turner impatiently; "of course people would take it for granted that I loved my nephew's little ones—and who could help it?—but what I am angry with myself for is that I did not let them see it. What good is love if one only shuts it up in one's heart to be looked at in private? It must be seen and felt if it is to be of any value, or to make any impression on its object. Ah! I was blind before, but now I see things more plainly. Those two—Darby especially—have gone away, wherever they are, with the idea that Aunt Catharine was in a sense their enemy, who grudged them every bit of happiness they wanted to have, while all the time I would willingly have given my life for either of them. Oh, if they were only back, how different I would be!" sobbed poor Aunt Catharine, leaning her aching head and faded face upon her sister's shoulder.
"Hush, dear," coaxed Auntie Alice, in her soft, cooing voice. "You will make yourself ill, and what should I do then? Besides, there is no use in giving way like that—until we are sure there is no longer room for hope, at any rate. It is not a week yet since the children disappeared. There's no guessing where they may have gone—off to Africa to find their father, as likely as not!" laughed Auntie Alice. "Darby would start in a minute—you know how hazy are his ideas of places and distance—and Joan follows wherever he leads. Some one will be finding them wandering about and bringing them back to us directly, you'll see. I shouldn't be a bit surprised," she added, in answer to her sister's look of astonishment, in which there was mingled a faint ray of hope. "And Dr. King agrees with me that it's some wild scheme or other that has taken them off, although perhaps not just Africa."
"Dr. King!" exclaimed Miss Turner, with a touch of her former asperity; "what does Dr. King know about the affair more than I do? But, of course, he would agree with you—ay, if you said the moon was made of green cheese!"
Miss Alice blushed prettily at her sister's words; indeed, she always did blush when Dr. King's name was mentioned. Even Darby used to notice it, and invariably fixed his eye upon his aunt to see the soft rose-colour rise in the cheeks which were still smooth and round enough to show off a blush becomingly.
"It's not alone Dr. King who believes they've gone off on some wild-goose chase," continued Miss Alice presently. "The rector thinks so too; and Mrs. Grey gets quite angry when her husband declares the children are drowned."
"Maybe, maybe," replied, Miss Turner gloomily; "and I'm sure I hope you're right. But one thing I'm certain of is that they've not set out for Africa. Darby would never take such a ridiculous notion into his head. He knew perfectly well how far away it is, and how people go there. Why, if there was one thing I drummed into him thoroughly over and above everything else—except the commandments, perhaps—it was Africa! But all the same, it's the thought of Africa that's just killing me, sister," moaned the poor lady in piteous tones. "What will their father say? What will he think of us? How are we to tell him? for tell him we must without further delay. That cablegram has got to go to-morrow. It's all very well for Dr. King and Mr. Grey and the rest of them to say, 'Wait, wait; time enough.' But we've waited too long already, so to-morrow the message goes, as sure as my name's Catharine Anne Turner. Then there's granny—Guy's poor mother at Denescroft. We've put her off and kept her in the dark quite long enough, even if there is a risk in letting her know the truth. I'm going there myself, Alice Turner," announced Aunt Catharine resolutely, "the minute I get that cablegram off my mind. I, and I alone, shall bear the pain of telling her that the grandchildren she adored have gone to be with their mother in heaven—her son's dear dead Dorothy. After that, I suppose the next thing will be seeing about our black gowns," whispered the elder lady, with a grievous burst of sorrow for which her sister had no words of comfort ready, because she too was softly sobbing.
"Come, cheer up," said Miss Alice at length, after she had dried her eyes. "Try to keep brave—for this one day at least. Who knows what may happen! Why, at any moment they may walk in," she added brightly, and her cheerfulness was not altogether assumed. For Auntie Alice could not bring herself to believe that the children were really lost, or gone from their sight for all time—that until they met together, small and great, around the throne of God in heaven they should see them no more. In the dead of night, when the house was still and baby sleeping quietly in his bassinet by Perry's bedside, she would leave her room and go into the nursery, where the sight of the empty cribs, the waiting garments, the books and toys lying in their usual places, was almost more than she could bear. Then she would feel with her sister that they were indeed gone for ever, and an earnest prayer for the absent father, upon whom the sudden blow would fall with stunning force, would wing its way out of the silence of the midnight hours to the God who is so specially a children's God. And would He not watch over them faithfully and keep them in safety? Ay, surely. But whether He should give them back in life to those who grieved so deeply for their loss, or fold them gently in the everlasting security of His own bosom, was a question to which as yet there had come no answer.
But in broad daylight, when the sky was blue, the sun shining, and the kittens whisking merrily round after their own tails among the autumn flowers in the garden, Auntie Alice was able to put away from her the dread fears which in the darkness took such real and awful shapes, and to agree with Dr. King and Mrs. Grey that the children had only gone off for a frolic somewhere, and, like bad halfpence, would certainly come back when least expected. They were not dead, she told herself; they could not be dead, she said in her heart over and over again. Darby, the wise, manly little lad, many of whose quaint, sweet sayings were carefully stored in his aunt's memory—Darby, with his clear eyes and winning ways, lying among the mud and slime of the canal! Horrible! And Joan, bright, merry, loving Joan—"little jumping Joan," she sometimes called herself—the very sunbeam of prim, quiet Firgrove—Joan sleeping among the fishes with folded hands and curtained eyes! Awful! And a long shudder would seize Auntie Alice's slender figure. No, no! the children were not drowned, she was certain; they would come back to them some day and somehow: so from hour to hour she watched and waited, hoped and prayed.
And now it is time to return to the old lime-kiln and our little travellers hidden there.