The startled question came from a little dark-eyed, pale-faced boy of about ten years of age, who was making the journey from Paddington to Exeter by the fastest train which runs. He occupied a corner seat in a third-class compartment, his only companions being an elderly gentleman and a young soldier at the other end of the compartment. It was the young soldier who answered him.

"No, sonny," he said, smiling; "it's all right, I assure you. I've been over this line many times, and the train always puts on speed about here."

He moved along the carriage as he spoke, and took the place opposite the little boy. He was quite a lad himself, barely twenty, but tall and strongly made, with a bronzed complexion and very blue eyes. He peered out of the window for a minute into the mist—it was a dull November day—then gave his attention to the little boy again.

"Was that your father who saw you off at Paddington?" he asked pleasantly.

"Oh, no!" the little boy replied. "My father died years ago. That was the master of—of the Institution where I've been staying since—since my mother was killed. She was killed in the Zeppelin raid last month. She—she—"

He broke off with a choking sob, whilst a tear rolled down his cheek. He brushed the tear away with the back of his hand, and bit his quivering lip.

"Oh, I am sorry!" exclaimed the young soldier. "I've a mother myself, and I know what I should feel—" He stopped abruptly and turned again to the window. "Poor kiddie!" he muttered to himself.

"What's your name?" he asked, after a brief silence, looking at the little boy again.

"William Brown. I was called after my father, and he was called after his father. Mother always called me Billy."

"I like the name Billy," declared the young soldier. "My name's Tom—Tom Turpin. I've got leave from 'somewhere in France' for a few days, and am on my way home—that's a farm some miles from Exeter. My father's a farmer. I was to have been a farmer too but the year after I left school on came the war, and I enlisted right away in the Devons. I've been in several engagements already, and so far have come off without so much as a scratch."

"How glad you must be!" exclaimed Billy.

Tom Turpin nodded.

"I am," he said simply, "and more grateful to God than I can express. It would be a blow to my parents if anything happened to me—they not having another child; but they'd bear it bravely if it came to them, knowing it was for the best."

"Oh, how could it be for the best?" cried Billy. "Was it for the best that my mother was killed? I can't think that!"

"Not now, perhaps, but you may some day—though perhaps that day won't be till you see God face to face and understand—oh, a lot of things that are just one big mystery now!"

The young soldier looked at Billy very kindly, with a world of sympathy in his clear blue eyes. When he spoke again it was to say—

"If I live to see the end of the war I shall most likely lay aside the sword for the plough, for I love everything to do with the country—from being country born and bred, I suppose. You're town-bred, aren't you?"

"Yes," assented Billy, "I've always lived in London; but my father came from Devonshire, and now I'm to live in Devonshire, too."

"Indeed?"

"Yes, with my grandfather—my father's father. He's going to meet me at Exeter. I've never seen him, and I've been wondering what I shall do if I can't find him."

"Oh, he'll find you, I expect. But don't worry—it is always a bad plan to go to meet trouble. We shall find your grandfather all right, I've no doubt. Have you any idea what he's like?"

"No. I think he must be kind, for he used to write to mother sometimes and send her money—I suppose he knew she was very poor. And he'd always tell mother not to mention the money when she wrote—because, he said, he particularly didn't wish to be thanked."

"He must be a rather good sort, I should say."

"Oh, I hope so!"

The train was swaying less now, and Billy was no longer in fear that it was running away. He grew very confidential with Tom Turpin. By-and-by he spoke of the Zeppelin raid again.

"I don't remember much about it," he said. "It seems now just like a dream—a very bad dream. It was in the night, you see. I didn't know at the time that mother was killed, because I was stunned. I didn't know anything till I woke up in the hospital. I thought mother might be there, too, but she wasn't—she was dead. Then they took me to the Institution—that's the workhouse—and, afterwards, I told them about grandfather, and now—"

"And now I hope your troubles are nearly over," broke in the young soldier. "Come, cheer up! By the way, have you any sisters or brothers?"

Billy shook his head. "There was only mother and me," he replied with a stifled sob.

The mist was lifting slightly, so that they could see they were approaching beautifully wooded country. Tom Turpin's eyes smiled as they noted this.

"Nearing home!" he murmured to himself. Then, hearing the little boy sigh, he said, "You're nearing home, too, and I hope it's going to be a very happy home indeed."

"I don't think I shall ever be happy again!" declared Billy.

The young soldier was silent for several minutes, evidently not quite knowing what to say.

"Look here," he said at length, "there's just one thing I should like to ask you. Are you a Christian? Do you believe in Jesus Christ?"

"Why, yes," was the surprised answer, "of course I do."

"Well, then, you ought to know that you're only separated from your mother for a time. 'The gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord.' You'll be with your mother through all Eternity."

Billy looked at Tom Turpin with a brightening countenance. Why had he not thought of this before?

"I'd forgotten," he murmured, "quite forgotten."

"Thought you had!" said Tom. "Ah! Here's actually a gleam of sunshine, and very welcome it is, too. We shall soon reach Exeter now! You stick by me till you see your grandfather."

This Billy was very glad to do. When, the train having slackened speed gradually and stopped, he and Tom Turpin alighted on the platform at Exeter, he kept close to his new-found friend, whilst he looked about him anxiously. There were not a great many people on the platform, and in a minute he noticed a middle-sized man of about sixty, with a ruddy, good-tempered countenance and grizzled hair, who was clad in corduroy breeches and thick leggings, going from carriage to carriage, apparently in search of someone. The instant Tom Turpin caught sight of this individual he stepped up to him and clapped him on the shoulder, whilst he exclaimed—

"I'm back again like a bad penny, you see! How are you, Brown?"

The ruddy-faced man turned quickly, then caught the young soldier's hand and wrung it.

"Master Tom!" he cried, evidently delighted. "Ah, how glad your parents will be!"

"Won't they?" smiled Tom. "But I'm keeping you! Are you going on?"

"No, sir. I'm here to meet my grandson—my dead son's little boy—who's just lost his mother, poor child!"

"Oh, please, that's me!" cried Billy, stepping forward.

The ruddy-faced man gazed at the boy earnestly a minute, then gave a satisfied nod.

"Aye," he said, "I see the likeness to your father."

He took one of the little boy's hands in his work-hardened palm, and pressed it affectionately.

"Well, I never!" exclaimed Tom Turpin. "Now, why didn't I guess who he was? But he didn't say you lived at Ashleigh! And there are so many Browns! Why, we've travelled down from Paddington together and got quite friendly. And, now, how are you going to get home—by train?"

"No, sir. I've Jenny and the market trap outside the station."

"Oh, I see! Well, I'm going by train—shall be home before you most likely. Good-bye, both of you! See you again, Billy!"

"Oh, how splendid!" cried Billy. "Good-bye, Mr. Turpin! Good-bye!"

He and his grandfather watched the alert khaki-clad figure run up the stairs to get to another platform, then they looked for and found Billy's luggage—a box which William Brown shouldered quite easily. Three minutes later found them outside the station.

"Here's Jenny!" said William Brown. "Tired of waiting, eh, old girl?"

Jenny was a big white donkey, harnessed to a smart little market cart. She was very fat and very well groomed, and seemed, Billy thought, to understand what was said, for she turned her head slowly, and, having given her master a shrewd glance, fastened her gaze on his companion.

"We're going now, my beauty," William Brown told her, as he placed Billy's box in the back of the cart. "She doesn't like boys," he explained; "they tease her."

"I promise I won't!" exclaimed Billy. "What a fine donkey she is! I never saw such a large one before. Please, may I stroke her, Grandfather?"

"If you like. But don't let her nip you—she's quite capable of doing it."

Billy spoke to the donkey softly, and patted her on the side. To his grandfather's surprise Jenny stood quite still, and allowed herself to be caressed.

"She knows I won't hurt her," the little boy said. "What a long, grave face she has! And how thoughtful she looks! I am sure she is very wise."

"Aye, that she is!" William Brown agreed, taking the reins in his hand and climbing into the market cart. "Get in, Billy! The afternoons are short now, and we've nigh seven miles to drive. As it is it'll be dark before we get home. If we're late for tea the Missus will have a word to say about it. Here, give me your hand!"

Billy obeyed. The next moment found him seated by his grandfather's side, a rug thrown across his knees. Jenny gave a toss of her head and a little pleased snort, then started for home.

[CHAPTER II.]

THE JOURNEY'S END.

BILLY sat silent and observant by his grandfather's side as he made his first journey through Exeter. The rain had come on again in a soft drizzle; but the streets were full of people, for it was market day. They passed the market and drove into High Street, the principal street, which surprised Billy by being so narrow and old; and a quarter of an hour later they had turned their backs on the city, and Jenny, who had been plodding along at a walk, suddenly began to trot.

"Why, she goes as fast as a pony!" exclaimed Billy, admiringly.

His grandfather nodded.

"I wouldn't change her for the best pony in Devonshire!" he declared. "I had her as a foal, and broke her in myself. You'll have to learn to drive her, Billy."

"Shall I?" cried Billy, his pale face aglow with pleasure.

William Brown smiled, then sighed whilst he brushed his hand across his eyes, which had suddenly become dim.

"I'm thinking of your father," he said, as the little boy looked at him inquiringly; "you're like what he was at your age, except that you're delicate looking and he was the picture of health. I'm real glad to see you, Billy, but I wish your poor mother'd come with you. Often I've wanted to invite you both to visit us, but the Missus don't take much to strangers, and—well, I let the time slip by—" He broke off, a regretful, troubled expression on his good-natured countenance.

"Who is the Missus?" inquired Billy, rather anxiously.

"My wife," was the brief response.

The little boy looked curious. He knew that his father's mother had died when his father had been a baby, and that his father had had a stepmother, but he had been told nothing about his grandfather's second wife.

"She isn't really my grandmother," he remarked, after a few minutes' thought.

"But you must try to please her and obey her as much as though she was," William Brown said quickly.

"Oh, of course I will," Billy agreed.

"She was a widow when I married her, with one little girl," his grandfather explained. "That little girl's the wife of John Dingle, the postmaster now—they keep the village shop. They've two children—Harold, about your age, and poor little May."

"Why do you say 'poor little May?'" asked Billy.

"Because she's rather wanting here," William Brown said, tapping his forehead meaningly; "not silly exactly, but—well, you'll see for yourself. Cut along, Jenny!"

There was no need to tell Jenny that. Fast and faster she trotted. By-and-by her master pulled her up, descended, and lit the lamps of the market cart. A minute later they were off again.

"I didn't know a donkey could go so well!" cried Billy, who was enjoying this new experience exceedingly.

"She's thinking of her supper," laughed his grandfather. "She'll have a good feed as soon as she gets home, and she knows it. Are you keeping warm, my boy?"

"Oh, yes, indeed, Grandfather! And I don't mind the rain at all! It's so soft! And so's the wind! Have we much further to go?"

"No. If it wasn't so misty and nearly dark you'd be able to have a good view of the Teign Valley from here. Ashleigh's in the Teign Valley, you know; but my little place—Rowley Cottage—is a mile and a half from Ashleigh Station. We shall soon be home now."

Ten minutes or so later the donkey came to a sudden stop before a field-gate in a narrow road.

"Here we are!" William Brown said, getting down and opening the gate; whereupon Jenny passed through the gateway, and began the descent of a hill.

"Stay where you are!" he commanded. "I'm going to lead Jenny down—there's a cart track through the field by the hedge which leads right into our yard. Hold tight!"

Billy, who was secretly rather nervous, did hold tight. Daylight had quite failed now, but, looking far down into what seemed dense darkness, he saw a light. As the market cart proceeded, every now and again jolting over a stone, he held his breath, fearing that it would upset or that Jenny would stumble and fall. But no accident happened. The yard was reached in safety, and the donkey came to a standstill before an open door through which a light was shining from the kitchen within.

"Here we are!" cried William Brown. "Now then, Billy, my boy!" He lifted his grandson down from the market cart, and turned to pat a sheep dog which had come out of the house.

"This is Scout," he said; "I leave him in charge here on market days when I go to Exeter. Don't be afraid of him—he won't hurt you."

Scout was sniffing Billy's legs. The little boy spoke to him, calling him by name, then extended his hand to him fearlessly. The dog sniffed the hand and licked it. At that moment a woman appeared in the doorway.

"You're later than I expected you'd be, William!" she exclaimed.

"Very sorry, my dear," William Brown answered; "I thought we were in good time—the train wasn't late."

"Your grandson's there? Yes? Then why doesn't he come in?"

"He's coming, Maria. Go in, please, Billy!"

Billy obeyed, and found himself in a large, comfortable kitchen, facing his grandfather's wife. She was a tall, handsome woman who did not look more than fifty, though she was actually much older. She smiled as she shook hands with Billy, and kissed him, but the smile was only on her lips, whilst her eyes did not soften. Somehow she gave him the impression that he was not altogether welcome.

"You can call me 'Granny' as my daughter's children do," she told him. "I've two grandchildren—that's May, the younger of them."

Billy's eyes followed the direction of her pointing finger, and saw a little girl seated on a wooden stool near the fire, into which she was gazing.

"Come here, May!" said Mrs. Brown, in a peremptory tone.

The child rose and came to her. She was a beautiful little creature of about eight years old, with a fair complexion, fair curly hair, and eyes so deeply blue that they looked quite purple.

"This boy is going to live with your grandfather and me," her grandmother said; "his name's Billy. Will you remember?"

May nodded.

"Billy," she said softly, "Billy." She spoke as though trying to impress the name on her memory.

"He's not a cousin," Mrs. Brown went on to explain, "but he'll be just like one. He's lost his mother—" She paused as her husband entered the kitchen, carrying Billy's box, then exclaimed sharply: "Mind to wipe your boots, William!"

"All right, Maria!" he answered good temperedly, adding: "Please give Billy a candle; he'll light me upstairs."

"Very well. But be quick, for I'm going to make tea."

Billy found he was to have a good-sized bedroom. It was spotlessly clean, with a white-curtained window and a white-curtained bed. He washed his face and hands, whilst his grandfather waited for him; then they went downstairs together. A stout woman, clad in a waterproof, the hood of which was pulled over her head, had come upon the scene in their absence. The minute she saw Billy she made a rush at him, flung her arms around him, and kissed him heartily again and again.

"Oh, the dear little fellow!" she cried, hugging him and half crying. "To think of all he's gone through—the poor, motherless lamb!"

"Elizabeth," said Mrs. Brown sternly, "show more sense! If you go on like that you'll upset him! This is my daughter, Mrs. Dingle, Billy."

"Aunt Elizabeth to you, my dear!" said Mrs. Dingle, kissing the little boy once more before she released him.

Billy looked at her with glowing eyes. He liked her, he had no doubt about that. She had a fresh, rosy face, and eyes as deeply blue as her little daughter's; but what won his heart so quickly was her expression—it was so motherly and kind.

"Well, tea's ready!" exclaimed Mrs. Brown, rather impatiently. "If you won't stay, Elizabeth—"

"I'd best go at once," interrupted Mrs. Dingle. "All right, mother! Oh, you've put May on her coat and hat! Ready, my birdie?"

May nodded. She kissed her grandmother and "dear grandfer" as she called William Brown, then came to Billy, put her arms around his neck and kissed him, too.

"The poor little boy's lost his mother, mummy," she said, as her mother took her by the hand to lead her away.

"I know, dear, I know!" Mrs. Dingle answered. "Come!"

She hurried the child out of the kitchen, and shut the door quickly.

Mrs. Brown was already seated at the head of the table. She motioned Billy to a chair on her left, whilst her husband took one on her right. William Brown said grace very reverently, and the meal began.

After tea Mrs. Brown took Billy upstairs with her, and unpacked his box. She showed him where he was to keep his belongings, and told him she would be seriously displeased if he was not tidy. Then, as he was very tired, she advised him to go to bed, and left him, returning later to take away his candle. He was just going to get into bed.

"Good-night, Billy," she said. "I'll call you in the morning."

"Thank you," Billy answered. "Good-night!"

As soon as she was gone he crept into bed. A sense of utter loneliness had taken possession of him, and, putting the bedclothes over his head, he gave way to a fit of weeping.

"Oh, mother, mother, mother!" he sobbed, "it's dreadful to think I shall never see you again."

Then suddenly he remembered how Tom Turpin had reminded him that he would be with his mother through all Eternity, and the load of desolation and grief was lifted from his heart.

"'The gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord,'" he whispered to himself, and was comforted.

[CHAPTER III.]

BILLY HAS A FRIGHT.

BILLY'S grandfather was a prosperous market-gardener now-a-days, but before his second marriage he had been only a farm labourer. He had married the widow of the former tenant of Rowley Cottage, and together they had worked hard to save money, and were now in a comfortable position. Billy's father had not got on with his stepmother, so he had never gone home after he had settled in London and married.

Rowley Cottage, which was really a fair-sized house, was situated far down the side of a steep hill, with a hill equally steep facing it. Before the house sloped a flower garden, at the end of which was a shallow, rippling stream, spanned by a wooden footbridge, and beyond the stream was a large vegetable and fruit garden. Surrounding the house and gardens were apple orchards.

Billy's first morning in his new home was a dull one. It rained hard, so he had to stay indoors. After breakfast his grandfather, clad in oilskins, went out, and did not return till dinner-time. He then said that there was a prospect of the weather clearing.

"If it does I'll show you about a bit," he said to Billy. "We might get as far as the post office—Elizabeth will give us some tea. Won't you come with us, Maria?" he asked his wife.

"No, thank you," answered Mrs. Brown. "I've work to do at home if you haven't. Besides, I've no liking for traipsing about in the mud."

About three o'clock the rain began to cease, and a little later the sun shone out. Billy and his grandfather left the house by the front door. They stood for a minute under the porch, whilst William Brown pointed out a house—the only human habitation in sight—almost on the summit of the opposite hill.

"That's Mount Farm," he said, "farmer Turpin's place. You can see Exeter from there. I used to work for farmer Turpin's father when I was a lad. Ah, the wind's rising! We shall have no more rain for a bit! Come along, Billy!"

He led the way to a little green gate in the garden hedge, by which they passed into an orchard. There was a footpath through the orchard to steep ploughed fields beyond, and a footpath through the fields to a gateway which led into the high road.

Billy was panting when at length the high road was reached, so that his grandfather had to wait for him to regain his breath.

"Oh, look at my boots!" exclaimed the little boy, as they moved on again; "they're all over mud!"

William Brown laughed.

"You'll get accustomed to mud," he said; "but you must have thicker boots. I must take you to Exeter one day and get you fitted out properly for bad weather."

"Oh, thank you!" Billy answered, gratefully. "Shall I have leather leggings like yours, Grandfather?" he asked.

"We'll see!" was the smiling response.

A ten minutes' walk brought them to the village—a few thatched cottages dotted around the church and churchyard. The railway-station, Billy learnt, was half a mile distant in the valley, and the vicarage was midway between the church and the railway-station.

"That's the post office," said William Brown, pointing at a semi-detached cottage with several bottles of sweets and some groceries in the window. "And there's Elizabeth!" he added, as a stout figure, in a dark stuff gown nearly covered by a big white apron, appeared in the doorway.

Mrs. Dingle nodded to her stepfather, and kissed Billy, telling them she had been on the look-out for them ever since dinner.

"And here's Uncle John!" she cried, pulling Billy inside the door and presenting him to a little dark man wearing spectacles, who came from behind the shop counter and peered at him in a near-sighted way.

"Very glad to make your acquaintance, my boy!" declared John Dingle, shaking Billy's hand heartily. "Yes," he said, "I see he's like his father, Elizabeth; but he looks very pale—"

"He's been through enough to make him pale!" broke in his wife. "Come into the parlour, Billy, and talk to me whilst I get tea."

Leaving his grandfather with the postmaster, Billy followed Mrs. Dingle into a tiny parlour behind the shop. It was divided from the shop by a door, the top half of which was of glass with a lace curtain across it. Mrs. Dingle put the kettle on the fire and laid the table for tea. The children were at school, she said, but would be home very shortly, and she did hope he and her boy, Harold, would be friends. Very soon Billy felt quite at ease with her, and began telling her about himself and how sadly he missed his mother. She shed tears when he spoke of his mother, whilst an expression of deep regret settled on her rosy face.

"I wish I'd known her!" she sighed. "Often I used to think I'd write to her, but I never did—not being much of a hand with my pen. And now it's too late! Hark! The children are out of school!"

Billy listened. He heard a babel of children's voices mingled with merry laughter in the road outside the shop. A few minutes later the door between the shop and parlour opened softly, and little May came in. The instant she caught sight of her mother's visitor her look became eager.

"Have you found her?" she cried, her blue eyes fixed anxiously on Billy's face.

"Found who?" Billy inquired, not understanding.

"She's thinking of your poor mother," Mrs. Dingle explained hastily; "she doesn't realise she's dead." Then, addressing her little daughter, she asked: "Where's Harold?"

"In the road, mummy," was the reply.

"Run and fetch him, there's a dear!"

After the child had gone Mrs. Dingle said—

"You mustn't mind if she questions you about your mother. May is backward for her age—there are many things she can't understand, though she's sharp enough in some ways. She learns hardly anything at school. She can't read, or write, or do sums. The mistress doesn't bother her to learn, for she knows she can't. Still, it's good for her to be with other children. By-and-by, perhaps, but God only knows—"

She broke off abruptly, May having returned, followed by her brother.

Harold was very like his mother in appearance, being a stout, rosy-cheeked boy. His blue eyes had a merry twinkle in them, and he looked full of fun.

Tea now being quite ready the two men were called from the shop, the lace curtain was pulled back from the glass-top door, and, grace having been said, the meal began.

"Now, make yourself at home, my boy," the postmaster said to Billy, "and let me tell you once for all that you'll always find a welcome here."

"Thank you, Mr. Dingle!" Billy replied, his eyes alight with gratitude.

"Uncle John, please!" corrected Mr. Dingle.

Billy smiled, and flushed with pleasure.

"Thank you, Uncle John!" he said, adding: "Oh, I wish mother knew how kind you all are to me!"

Twice during tea customers came to the shop, and the postmaster had to go to serve them. On the second occasion Billy thought he recognised the customer's voice, and glanced quickly at his grandfather.

"Yes!" nodded William Brown, "it's Master Tom! Why, here he comes!"

A smiling face peeped around the half-open glass-top door, whilst its owner said—

"What a jolly tea-party! Mrs. Dingle, won't you please give me a cup of tea?"

Mrs. Dingle was answering that she would be delighted, when there was the sound of a loud report at no great distance, and Billy sprang to his feet with a terrified shriek.

"Oh! Oh!" he gasped, horror-stricken; "it's a bomb!—it's a bomb!"

"No, no, no!" Tom Turpin assured him, "nothing of the kind! It's blasting—that is, blowing up rock with dynamite—at the stone quarry. Don't be frightened! Really, there's nothing to be alarmed at. You won't hear the noise, this afternoon, again."

Billy sank into his chair. He was white to the lips, and shaking. The elders of the party looked at him with sympathy and much concern. May's eyes expressed only wonderment, but Harold's sparkled with amusement and scorn.

"The stone quarry's only a couple of miles away, so you'll get accustomed to the sound of blasting," Tom Turpin continued, "and you'll not be scared another time, for you'll know what the sound means."

"Yes—oh, yes!" murmured Billy. He was ashamed of the terror he had felt and exhibited. Everyone would consider him such a coward. His lips quivered, whilst tears rose to his eyes.

"Did you think the Germans were coming?" asked Harold, with a wide grin.

"I thought a German airship might be dropping bombs," admitted Billy. "I—I'm ashamed of myself."

"You've no call to be that!" Mrs. Dingle told him. "It's no wonder you're nervy, I'm sure. There, you're all right now, aren't you? Have another cup of tea, won't you? It'll do you good."

Billy shook his head. It was with difficulty he kept from crying. He sat in miserable silence whilst Tom Turpin talked with the others and took his tea, and, when the young soldier left, his voice was unsteady as he said "good-bye" to him. He was sure Tom must despise him for having shown such fear.

It was dark long before Billy and his grandfather started for home. A walk in complete darkness was a novel experience for the little boy, but he was not timid, because his grandfather was with him. He said so, adding, as the hand which held his tightened its clasp—

"I know you'll look after me, Grandfather!"

"Aye," William Brown assented, "to the best of my power. And there's One above, Billy, Who'll look after us both. You'll soon learn to find your way about in the darkness, and won't mind it—why, even little May doesn't."

"Doesn't she?" cried Billy in surprise. "How brave of her!"

"You know it says in one of the psalms, 'The Lord my God shall make my darkness to be light,'" his grandfather said thoughtfully; "and I think that, though there's a sort of cloud over May's mind, behind the cloud there's God's own light. The soul that has that light knows no fear."

[CHAPTER IV.]

SUNDAY.

BILLY'S first Sunday in Devonshire was a beautiful day, with sunshine and a soft westerly breeze. The little boy accompanied "Grandfer," as he had decided to call his grandfather in imitation of the Dingle children, to church in the morning, and, after the service, lingered with him in the churchyard to speak to the Dingles, all of whom had been to church, too. Then Tom Turpin, his mother on one side of him, his father on the other, came out of church, and stopped and spoke, afterwards introducing Billy to his parents.

"I hope to call at Rowley Cottage to-morrow," the young soldier told William Brown; "I want to go around your garden and see everything. Father tells me you're doing your 'bit' to help win the war."

On their way home Billy asked his grandfather what Tom Turpin had meant by this remark. William Brown explained that food was likely to be very short on account of the German submarines, which were torpedoing so many food ships, and that he was doing his "bit" to help win the war by cultivating every inch of his garden, and growing as many vegetables as he could.

"The worst of it is I can get so little help," he said; "there isn't a fit man left in the village for me to employ. That means that I shall have to work doubly hard during the coming winter and spring."

"Don't you think I could help you, Grandfer?" Billy inquired eagerly.

"You?" William Brown looked at his grandson with a slightly amused smile. "Well, I don't know about that," he said doubtfully. "Harold helps his father in his allotment garden, but he's very strong for his age, whilst you're such a delicate little chap—"

"Oh, Grandfer," Billy burst in, "I do believe I'm stronger than I look! Oh, let me help you! Let me try, at any rate! I want so much to do something to help win the war!"

"Well, we'll see what you're fit to do," was the cautious response.

With that Billy had to be satisfied for the time. They were descending the hill to Rowley Cottage by way of the pathfields now, and a few minutes later found them in the orchard, where Jenny was browsing contentedly. She allowed Billy to put his arm around her neck and caress her. His grandfather looked on, rather anxiously at first, then with great satisfaction.

"She's taken to you very well, Billy," he said. "You'll be able to do anything with her, you'll find."

"Shall I?" cried Billy, delighted. "Do you think she'd let me ride her, Grandfer?"

"I shouldn't wonder! You shall try one of these days, perhaps!"

They entered the house by the back door. Mrs. Brown was in the kitchen, dishing dinner. She was very hot, and looked exceedingly ill-tempered.

"Well, Maria, my dear!" her husband said cheerfully.

"Oh, it's well for you, I daresay," she retorted, "you who've had an easy morning; but what about me who's been cooking all the time you've been at church? There, take your seats! Dinner's ready!"

"I often wish you'd manage to do your cooking on a Saturday and have a cold dinner on Sunday like Elizabeth," William Brown remarked; "then you'd be able to go to church—we'd such a nice service this morning, and—"

"Oh, no doubt Elizabeth's a better manager than her mother!" interrupted his wife sarcastically. "I've always cooked on Sundays, and I always shall."

It was a very good dinner, but Billy did not enjoy it, for Mrs. Brown, who carved, gave him a thick slice of fat mutton which he could not eat. Noting this, his grandfather remarked that he was not getting on, and he admitted that he did not like fat meat.

"Can't you give him a cut of lean, Maria?" William Brown suggested.

"No, I can't—not without disfiguring the joint, and I'm certainly not going to do that," Mrs. Brown answered. "Billy must learn not to be so particular. If we can eat fat meat he can."

Her husband looked troubled, but said no more. As soon as the meal was over he rose and went out, while Mrs. Brown began to put together the dinner things with a clatter of plates and dishes. Billy watched her in silence for a minute, then asked timidly: "Can I help you, Granny?"

"Help me? You?" cried Mrs. Brown, raising her eyebrows in a contemptuous fashion. "What can you do to help me, I should like to know?"

"I could wash up," Billy answered, flushing, "or I could wipe the things as you wash them—I always did that for mother. If you'll say what you'd like me to do—"

"I'd like you to keep out of my way and leave me to do my work as I please!" Mrs. Brown interrupted. "Stay, though, you can give these scraps to the fowls."

The little boy took the plate of scraps she offered him and went out into the yard. When he returned with the plate empty Mrs. Brown had cleared the table and was washing up.

"So your mother used to make you useful?" she remarked inquiringly.

"Yes, Granny," he answered, "and I liked helping her. She used to be so tired sometimes—she worked very hard, you know."

"Humph! She'd have been wiser if she'd gone into a situation when your father died instead of starting a business of her own."

Billy was silent. His mother—she had been a milliner's apprentice before her marriage—had opened a little business of her own when his father, who had been employed in a warehouse, had died. She had earned enough to support her child and herself, but there had been nothing over.

"Mother didn't want to be parted from me," the little boy said, in a faltering voice; "and now—and now—oh, I can't bear it! Oh, what shall I do?"

He flung himself on the settle by the fire, covered his face with his hands, and wept.

"Don't go on like that, child," Mrs. Brown said hastily; "perhaps we'd better not talk of your mother any more. Come, stop crying, like a sensible boy! Why, here's May! You don't want to upset her, do you?"

Billy sat up, struggling to regain composure. He was wiping his eyes with his pocket-handkerchief when May, entering by the back door, appeared upon the scene. She ran to her grandmother and kissed her, then, turning to Billy, was struck with dismay at his woe-begone look.

"Billy's been crying," she said, in an awed tone. "Why, Billy, why?" she asked, stealing softly to his side. Then, as the little boy's only answer was a suppressed sob, she cried, "I know! You haven't found your mother yet!"

"Oh, May, you don't understand!!" Billy exclaimed, with a wail of grief in his voice. "Mother's dead!"

"Dead?" May echoed, a faintly troubled look disturbing the usual sweet serenity of her face. "But I thought Granny said she was lost?"

"That's often said of folks who are dead," explained Mrs. Brown.

"But it isn't true, Granny," May said gravely. "If people are good and love Jesus they go to Jesus for always when they die, don't they?"

"Oh, yes," agreed Billy. "I know my mother's safe with Jesus, May."

"Then," said May, triumphantly, the faintly troubled expression passing from her face, "she can't be lost!"

At that minute Harold came in, looking flushed and heated. Mrs. Brown immediately accused him of having been teasing Jenny. He did not admit it, only laughed, and hastened to tell her that he and May had come to take Billy to church with them.

"Yes, he shall go," Mrs. Brown decided. "Hurry and wash your hands and brush your hair, Billy."

The Vicar of Ashleigh always held a children's service in the church on Sunday afternoons. This afternoon the service had commenced before the Dingle children and Billy got there. They slipped noiselessly into a back seat and joined in the hymn which was being sung. After the hymn the Vicar—an old man with a kind, gentle face—gave an address, and then moved about the church, questioning the children. More than once Billy saw his eyes fixed on him with sympathy and interest.

"I like the Vicar very much," he said to Harold in the churchyard afterwards.

"So does May," Harold replied; "she thinks there's no one like Mr. Singleton. Can you find your way home by yourself, Billy?"

"Oh, yes," assented Billy, "of course I can."

"That's all right, then," smiled Harold, adding: "you'll meet nothing you need be afraid of, and hear nothing—being Sunday there's no blasting going on at the stone quarry to-day."

[CHAPTER V.]

BILLY'S PRESENT.

NEXT morning Billy came downstairs looking heavy-eyed and poorly. He had had bad dreams, he said, when his grandfather asked him if he had not slept well; but he did not say that in them he had lived again through the night of the air raid and the grievous time which had followed, so that the hours of darkness had been a horror to him.

"You'd better spend the morning out-of-doors," remarked Mrs. Brown. "It couldn't be finer weather—a good thing, too, as it's washing-day. I hope Mrs. Varcoe will come early, then we shall get the clothes dried during the day."

Mrs. Varcoe was a woman from the village, Billy learnt, who came to Rowley Cottage every Monday morning to do the washing. He met her in the yard, after breakfast, where he was waiting for his grandfather, who was getting his wheel-barrow and gardening tools from an out-house, and she paused to look at him. She was a tall, muscular, red-headed woman, with a big freckled face and small greenish eyes.

"Good morning!" he said politely, thinking that she was certainly the ugliest woman he had ever seen.

"Good morning," she answered gruffly, turning towards the house.

"Mrs. Varcoe is very ugly, Grandfer," Billy remarked, as, his grandfather having joined him, they went around the house towards the vegetable garden.

"Aye," William Brown agreed, "but she's a good sort—a widow who's brought up a family of boys and made men of 'em!—men of the right kind, I mean. Four are serving their country—two in the Navy, one in Mesopotamia, and one in France. There was another, but he was killed in action at the beginning of the war. The eldest he was. His death must have been a big blow to his mother; but I've never heard her mention it except once."

"What did she say?" Billy asked, much interested.

"She said, 'It's a grief, but there's no bitterness with it. My boy died fighting for the right, and I shan't be ashamed of him when I meet him before God.' It was a brave speech, wasn't it?"

"Yes," agreed Billy, "I think it was."

"Now the first thing I mean to do this morning is to make a bonfire," William Brown said, as they entered the vegetable garden. "You can help me collect all the dead leaves and rubbish lying about. We'll make the bonfire in this corner where there's nothing growing at present."

So Billy set to work with his grandfather. It took them more than an hour to make the bonfire—a huge one. The little boy was allowed to light it, and gave a shout of pleasure as the flames leaped up followed by a volume of smoke.

"Oh, this is splendid!" he cried, "splendid!" A tinge of colour had come into his pale cheeks, and his eyes were sparkling.

"It's burning very well," his grandfather said, smiling at his excitement, "and the smoke's blowing right away from the house—fortunately. I'd forgotten till this moment about the washing—it's always hung out in the orchard at the right side of the house. If the wind had not been blowing the smoke away from that direction the clean clothes might have had smuts on them by this time, and I don't know what Granny would have said—not more than I should have deserved, though, of course. Ah, here comes Master Tom!"

Billy looked at Tom Turpin rather shyly as he greeted him. He wished he had not shown himself such a coward before this young soldier, who, he imagined, did not know what fear meant. He was very quiet as he followed him and his grandfather about the garden, but he listened with the greatest attention to all that was said. William Brown showed where he intended sowing his various crops in the spring, and the bit of orchard he meant to take into the garden.

"I don't know how I'm going to do all I want to," he remarked, "but I shall just plod on bit by bit from day to day and do my best."

"That's what we're doing across in France and Flanders," Tom replied gravely.

"I want to help Grandfer," Billy said eagerly. "I do wish I was bigger and stronger. I tried just now to use Grandfer's spade, but I couldn't—I couldn't drive it more than an inch or two into the ground." He sighed, looking at his thin arms ruefully.

"I've some light garden tools at home my father gave me when I was a boy no bigger than you, and you shall have them," Tom told him. "I'd like to know they were being used. I'll give them to you, Billy, if you'll accept them."

"Oh, Mr. Turpin!" cried the little boy. He could say no more for a minute, so overcome was he with surprise and gratitude; then he added earnestly: "Oh, thank you—thank you!"

"It's too kind of you, Master Tom, really, but if you'll lend the tools to him—" William Brown was beginning, when he was interrupted.

"No, no!" Tom Turpin said decidedly, "I wish him to have them for his own—I'm sure he'll make good use of them."

"Oh, yes, yes!" cried Billy, his face aglow with delight and excitement.

Tom Turpin had stopped to see William Brown's garden on his way to the village. When he left, Billy went with him through the pathfields to the gate leading into the high road. There they were to part.

"I don't suppose I shall see you again this time I'm home," the young man said, as he looked back at Rowley Cottage, then let his eyes wander to his home on the opposite hill, "so this will be 'good-bye,' Billy. I'll send the garden tools this evening by one of our men who lives in the village."

"Oh, thank you!" cried Billy. Then, suddenly, his face, which had been bright, clouded. "Mr. Turpin," he said, "you weren't ever afraid of anything, were you?"

"What a question!" smiled the young man. "Why, yes, indeed," he answered, becoming serious as he saw this was a serious matter to his little companion. "The first night I spent in the trenches, for instance, I was afraid," he admitted. "Oh, God knows I was awfully afraid!"

Billy gazed at the soldier with amazement. "I should never have thought it!" he declared; "I wouldn't have believed it if anyone but yourself had told me! But you didn't show you were afraid?"

"I don't think I did."

"You didn't scream as I did when I heard the blasting?"

"No. I asked God to strengthen me and take my fear away. I prayed, 'Be not Thou far from me, O Lord,' and by-and-by I began to feel His presence, and then wasn't afraid any more."

Billy drew a deep breath. "I couldn't help being afraid when I heard the blasting," he said in an ashamed tone.

"No, nor could I help being afraid that first night in the trenches. But I found help in my weakness, and that same help is for you if you ask it. Now I must really be off. Good-bye!"

The young soldier vaulted over the gate, greatly to Billy's admiration, waved his hand, and disappeared from view.