Basil stood uncertain. He raised a threatening glance towards Miss Sophronia's window; but Margaret was beside him in a moment. "Basil, to please me!" she said. She laid her hand on the boy's shoulder. He stood still, and Margaret had a moment of painful doubt; but the next instant he raised his face to her with his own enchanting smile. "All right!" he said. "You are all right, Cousin Margaret, whatever other folks are, and I'll help you every single bit I can."
"That's my good, helpful boy!" said Margaret, heartily. "Oh, Basil, you and I together can do a great deal, but alone I feel rather helpless. You shall be my little—no, not little—you shall be my brother, and tell me how to manage Merton and Susan, and make them love me. But the first thing is to find Merton. What can have become of the child? Where shall we look for him?"
"I think perhaps down by the bog," said Basil, looking very important and pleased with his new responsibility. "He said he was going down there, first chance he got. I meant to go, too, but I won't if you don't want me to, Cousin Margaret. There's a bully—"
"Basil!"
"There's a—a superb workman down there; do you know him, Cousin Margaret? I guess he's the boss, or something. He wears blue overalls and a blue jumper, and he can vault—oh my! how that fellow can vault!"
"Basil, I don't feel at all sure that your uncle would wish you to be talking with strange workmen. At any rate, I think you ought to ask leave, don't you?"
"Maybe I ought!" said Basil, cheerfully. "But it's too late now, you see, 'cause I have talked to him, quite lots, and he's awfully jolly. Oh, Jonah! I do believe there he is now; and—Cousin Margaret! I do believe he's got Mert with him! Look!"
Margaret looked. A man was coming across the field that lay beyond the garden wall; a workingman, from his blue overalls and jumper; a young man, from the way he moved, and from his light, springy step. Margaret could not see his face, but his hair was red; she could see that over the burden that he carried in his arms.
Coming nearer, this burden was seen to be a child. A chimney-sweeper? No, for chimney-sweepers are not necessarily wet; do not drip black mud from head to foot; do not run streams of black bog water.
"Merton!" cried poor Margaret, who knew well the look of that mud and water. "Oh, what has happened? Is—is he hurt?" she cried out, running towards the wall.