an
thought (in fact, we _both_ thought--for a moment, you know) that God
had really sent a star to point us out the path, just as long ago He
guided the wise men to the place where the dear little baby Jesus lay."

For a space there was silence. Joan was almost asleep on her seat on the
tree-stump; not a quiver of the hazel bushes betrayed the presence of
the couple lurking there. And into the big farmer's eyes a sudden
moisture had sprung as he heard these little ones expressing in simple
speech their perfect confidence in the ability and readiness of their
heavenly Father to make good His own promise: "I will guide thee with
mine eye."

"That's right, my boy," spoke Mr. Grey at length, in deep, earnest
tones. "Always look out for God, an' you'll find Him close beside you,
in the darkest forest as well as in the starry sky. An' now we must be
movin', or the ladies'll be sendin' the police to look for the pair o'
ye.--Eh! Anybody there?" he shouted, as the sudden snapping of a twig
broke the stillness about them.

There was no answer, only the flutter of a belated bird as it failed to
find its accustomed perch among the pines, and the sighing of the wind
through the tree-tops overhead.

"Some beast, I expect, or a poacher, maybe," Mr. Grey muttered to
himself. Then he turned towards the children. "I was never reckoned much
o' _a star_," he said, with a chuckle of amusement, "but I guess I'll
manage to steer ye straight to Firgrove."

"Do you think you could carry Joan, please, Mr. Grey? She's not _very_
heavy; I sometimes carry her myself," added Darby, as if doing so were a
mere trifle instead of a feat of which he was privately proud. "She's
tired, I'm afraid.--Joan! Waken up! Aren't you tired?"

"Yes, werry, werry tired," assented Joan sleepily, as the farmer cradled
her comfortably in his strong arms; and with Darby holding hard by his
coat-tail they started.

"The eggs, Darby! Is you forgettin' Aunt Catharine's eggs, and the
bantam's too?" Joan cried, when they neared the opening in the wood.

Outside the fringe of dark trees twilight still lingered, and there,
just where Darby had set it down, was the basket, safe and sound.

With a whoop of delight at the welcome sight of the basket--for its
possible loss had lain heavily on his tender conscience--Darby sprang
forward to seize it. But in the dusk he did not notice a long, twisted
tree-root that straggled between him and his desire. His toe caught in
it