Part 12 (2/2)

'This winter promised to be a very hard one--all the wise folk had said so, and they weren't often mistaken. There were signs they could read better than people can nowadays, and Robin's heart was heavy. For if the snow came his work might stop, or it might be almost impossible to go backwards and forwards to it. There had been times when for days together the moor could not be crossed. The boy was tired too, and hungry, and he knew well there was not much of a meal waiting for him at home. But at least there would be shelter and warmth, for there was no lack of fuel ready to hand--same as we have it here. The wind whistled and moaned, and felt as if it cut him. More than once he put his hands up to his ears, just to feel like if they were still there and to shut out the dreary sound for a moment. And one time after doing so, it seemed to him that he heard a new sound mixing with the wind's wail. A cry, with more in it than the wind was telling: for it sounded like the cry of a living being. He hurried on, feeling a little frightened as well as troubled----'

'Were there wolves about that place then, do you think, Nance?' Archie interrupted eagerly. 'I have read in stories that they make a sort of a cry--a baying cry. Perhaps the boy thought it was wolves?'

Nance shook her head.

'There's been no wolves in this country, Master Archie, since much farther back than my grandmother's time. No, it wasn't that sort of a cry. He heard it again and again. And each time it grew plainer and plainer to him that it was some creature in trouble, and bit by bit it came stronger upon him that he must seek it out whatever it was; that he would be a cruel boy if he didn't. So he stood quite still to listen, and through and above the wind he heard it still clearer, and then he turned to the side where it seemed to come from, though it was hard to make his way. But strange to say he hadn't gone many steps before he felt he was on a path, and, stranger still, all of a sudden the moon came out from behind the clouds, and he heard the cry almost at his feet, though before then it had seemed a good way off. He went on a few steps, peering at the ground, and soon he saw a little white shape lying huddled up among the withered heather, and sobbing fit to break your heart to hear. It was a little girl; she seemed about two years old, and when she felt him trying to lift her up, she stopped crying and wound her tiny arms about his neck, so that, if he had wanted to set her down again, he could scarce have done so. And before he knew where he was there she had settled herself in his arms as content as could be. He spoke to her, thinking she might understand.

'”Who are you, baby?” he said, ”and where have you come from? And what am I to do with you?”

'It was half like speaking to himself, and no answer did he get, except that she cuddled herself closer into his arms, and it came over him that take her home he must, whatever came of it, and in less than a minute she seemed to have fallen asleep. He drew what he could of his coat over her, for it was bitter cold, and it was hard work fighting against the wind, tired as he was too, and mis...o...b..ing him sorely as to what his poor mother would say, and small blame to her, when she saw what he had brought with him. But queer things happened during that walk; whenever his heart went down the most, he'd feel her little hand patting at his cheek, or one of her fair curls would blow across his lips, as if it was kissing him, and with that he'd cheer up again and his feet would feel new spring in them. So they came at last to his home, and there was his mother peeping out, wild night though it was, and listening for his coming, for she had been getting very frightened.

'”Is it you, Robin?” she called out, and sad as her heart was that evening, it gave a leap of joy when she heard her boy's voice in return.

'But it was as he had been fearing, when he came in and she saw by the firelight what he was carrying.

'”I couldn't help it, mother,” he said, ”n.o.body could have helped it,”

and he told his story.

'”No,” said the poor woman, ”you couldn't have left the baby to die all alone out on the moor a night like this. Though it's little but shelter and warmth we can give her. There's but a crust for your own supper, my poor Robin.”

'She took the child from him and laid it down on the settle by the fire, and as she did so it opened its eyes and smiled at her, and for a minute her heart felt lightened, just as it had been with Robin. And the baby shook its pretty curls, and sat straight up, looking about it quite bright and cheery-like, and then it made signs that it was hungry, and Robin took the piece of bread waiting for him on the table, and give the biggest half to the little creature, who ate it eagerly. His two next brothers stood staring at her--the little sisters were in bed and asleep, his mother told him. They were so hungry, she said, 'twas the best place for them.

'”And how we're to get food for to-morrow, heaven only knows,” she went on. ”I've not a penny left, and if this wind brings the snow there'll be no getting across the moor even to beg a loaf for charity,” and her tears fell fast.

'Robin felt half wild. Hungry as he was he couldn't bear to think of the little ones in bed without a proper meal, and he was half angry when he heard his little brothers give a shout of laughter.

'”Be quiet, can't you?” he was going to say. But what he saw made him stop short. There was the little stranger, as grave as a judge, taking turn about with the two boys at the crust of bread, and they were laughing with pleasure at her feeding them, and calling out that the bread had honey on it.

”They must be hungry to think that,” said the mother; ”but the little one has a kind heart, and maybe she's not very hungry herself, though she's so poorly clad,” and both she and Robin felt happier to see how pleased the boys were.

'The good woman undressed the little child and put her to bed with her own, and with no supper but his half crust, Robin fell asleep that night, feeling, all the same, cheerier than might have been.

'”I'll be up betimes, mother,” were his last words, ”whatever the weather is. I must make sure of some food for you and the children before I go to work.”

'He woke early the next morning, earlier than usual, tired though he was, and the moon was s.h.i.+ning so brightly in at the little window that at first he thought it was daylight. And when he looked round the kitchen, for he slept in a corner of it, he could scarce believe it wasn't, for it was all tidied up, the fire burning beautiful, and everything spick and span as his mother loved to have it. ”Poor mother,”

thought Robin, ”why has she got up so early? and how sound I must have been sleeping not to hear her!”

'He called out to her, but there was no answer, and when he got up and peeped into the inner room, why! there they were all fast asleep, and as he turned back again, he saw something still stranger, for there was the table all spread ready for breakfast--better than that indeed, for the breakfast itself was ready. There was a beautiful, big, wheaten loaf, and a roll of b.u.t.ter, a treat they seldom tasted, and a great bowl full of milk, and on the hob by the fire stood the coffee-pot, and it was many a day since that had been used, with the steam coming out at its spout, and the nice smell of fresh ground berries fit to make your mouth water.

'There was no thought of going to bed again for Robin when he had seen all this, though he'd been half wis.h.i.+ng he could, he was that tired from the night before, and by the clock he now saw that it was half-past six.

He gave a cry of joy which awoke his mother, and brought her and the children in to see what had happened.'

CHAPTER VIII

NANCE'S STORY (_continued_)

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