So there was an end of all kindly intentions towards poor Moll, who, under other circumstances, might have been a better woman. And who can say that after her husband's tragic death, aided possibly by the altered conditions of her life, she would not henceforth endeavour to live more honestly than she had done hitherto? Certainly Aunt Catharine hoped she would, but Joan believed she should. And for some subtle, inexplicable reason Darby felt that Joan was right.
If you journey some day through the heart of happy England, it may be that you will come upon the village of Firdale, and not far away, sheltering snugly in the hollow below Copsley Wood, the old-fashioned, handsome homestead of Firgrove.
Darby and Joan are a big boy and girl now. Eric is in knickerbockers, and trots quite proudly up the hill to Copsley Farm and down again, all by his own self! There is a bright, clever governess at Firdale, and Joan has quite left off dolls. Even Miss Carolina, the well-beloved, has long since ceased to charm. Darby is at school—a real, proper boys' school, as he says, where they have forms and fags, masters and mischief in plenty.
But he and Joan still preserve their spirits pure, simple, single, childlike, as they were on that bright October morning when, hand in hand, they set out to seek the Happy Land.
And now, having accompanied them so far, let us wish them for the remainder of their journey "Bon voyage!" and thus take leave of our Two Little Travellers.