A great consternation fell into the midst of that hitherto happy vanful. For full thirty seconds no one spoke at all, not indeed until Blackberry became lost to view round the corner of the long lane they were just leaving. Then poor Mrs. Busson wailed out—
“Please God it’s not the children.”
But Phoena, with lips grown white, leant over to whisper into Fay’s ear, “Don’t you remember we guessed that they were going to do something?”
The remainder of that drive was a very sorry affair.
Though Mr. Busson whipped his horses into a pace, which greatly astonished those sleek, slow-going animals, it seemed to all concerned as if the chimneys of the Farm would never come in sight. At length, however, the old van jolted up to the door, whence they had set out so merrily that morning.
“Please God it’s not the children,” repeated Mrs. Busson, as Libbie came flying to meet them at the open door.
Poor Libbie, usually so trim and dainty! She looked now as if she had been through a campaign! She was capless, her drenched hair hung loosely over her shoulders, her face was flushed, swollen and blotched, her gown was be-draggled and torn, her apron burnt into holes, and one hand was tied up in rags.
“Oh! ma’am, oh! ma’am,” she cried, in piteous distress, “they’ve been and broken through into the bee-room!”
“But speak, woman, are the children hurt?” cried Mrs. Busson.
“That’s it, that’s it, ma’am! Miss Di’s been stung that venomous, that we’ve had to send off for the doctor. Manny’s got her into bed, and is doing her best for her, but she’s been most cruelly punished. As for her poor eyes, it’s my belief that she’ll never see out of them again. There, you can hear her screaming, she hasn’t left off, not for five seconds together.”