"Darby and me went away to look for the Happy Land—like what nurse sings 'bout, don't you know?—far, far away," explained the little girl. "But we didn't find it after goin' miles and miles and miles; we only finded a old carawan, and some bad peoples, and Puck, and a ee-mornous (enormous) bear! Now we's back, and I's awful hung'y! Is there any cake or cold puddin', or anythin' good for tea?" she inquired anxiously, looking audaciously up into the familiar face of Aunt Catharine—familiar, of course, yet with a something so new and strange in its softened lines that the little one instinctively put up a dirty hand and softly stroked her aunt's cheek, murmuring as she did so, in her sweet, cooing voice, "Poor Aunt Catharine! Joan loves you, and willn't never, never go away from you any more. Now, please tell me, is there anythin' good for tea?" she demanded.
"Joan!" exclaimed Darby in a shocked undertone, as if mere creature comforts like cake and cold pudding were not to be thought of at such a time. Then he addressed his aunt.
"Joan's quite correc'," he said, standing right in front of her, bravely bent on confession of his naughtiness and getting it over as quickly as possible, so that he could start fair with a clean sheet. "I was mad because you punished me, and we made up a plan—at least I did—to run away and find the Happy Land, and I coaxed Joan to come with me. It's all my fault, Aunt Catharine; so whatever putting to bed or catechism there is I'll take it, for I was the naughty one. But we found out that there's no Happy Land at all—at least not like what I thought. Our Happy Land's here at Firgrove, and oh, but we're glad to get back to it!—Aren't we, Joan?"
"Yes, werry, werry glad," agreed Joan readily.
"And I'm never going to be disobedient or troublesome, never, never any more, if you'll forgive me this time, Aunt Catharine, and let me begin over again," begged the boy, slipping a grimy little paw into Aunt Catharine's spotless hand.
"Forgive you, child!" cried Aunt Catharine, in a broken voice. "Why, of course I'll forgive you, and we'll both begin over again, Darby," she whispered.
"That's right," he replied cheerily. "And I'm going to try to make a Happy Land all about me wherever I am. Mr. Bambo 'splained it to me ever so nicely. He's very clever, you know. This is he," said Darby, pointing to the dwarf, who still leaned, as if for support, against the pillar of the gate.
Bambo advanced a step, tried to speak, but his voice was too hoarse to be intelligible.
"He's my own dear dwarf!" declared Joan, patting the little man's shoulder with gentle, caressing touch.
"He is called Bambo, but his real own name is Green—Jimmy Green; Green, our gardener's grandson, Aunt Catharine," explained Darby in rapid sentences. "The wicked man and woman took us to their caravan when we were on our way to look for the Happy Land, and only for Bambo we should not have known where to find it. We love him, Aunt Catharine, Auntie Alice. He is ill—very ill, I think. Won't you please be good to him, both of you?" pleaded the boy, in eager, coaxing accents.