There were more sharp stones in their way that day than flowers. The Doctor and his charge tramped steadily on that morning, till in the distance they suddenly saw stretched out before them a long line of something which kept on glittering in the sunlight.
“Soldiers,” cried Phil, excitedly. “I know. I can see the bayonets on their guns. It must be my father’s men.”
“In blue coats, Phil?” said the Doctor, sadly.
The boy was silent for a few moments, as he stood with his brow knit, before saying slowly:
“No; their coats are red, and they have white leggings.”
There was nothing for it but to turn back and then strike off in another direction, which they followed till evening, when the bread was eaten, the milk having been finished at noon, and the basket and pitcher placed together in a tree.
“I should like to come and find them again some day and take them back to her,” said Phil. “We may come here again, mayn’t we?”
“Perhaps,” said the Doctor, with a sigh; and then, “Phil, my child, are you very, very tired?”
“Not so tired as I was last night. Why do you ask?”
“Because we must not sleep in a wood to-night; we must walk on till we come to some farm and ask for a lodging there.”