she was grown up; his two little friends had given him some
sticklebacks, packed in wet moss; they were now in his pockets, as were
also some water-beetles in a paper bag; the crown of his cap was full of
silkworms carefully wrapped in mulberry leaves; but all these treasures
could not avail to comfort him for loss of the sweet companionship he
had enjoyed--for the apples he had crunched in the big dog's kennel
when hiding with another little imp from the nurse--for the common
possession they had enjoyed of some young rats dug out of the bank of
the stream, and more than all, for the tender confidences there had been
between them as to the endless pranks they spent their lives in, and all
the mischief they had done or that they aspired to do.

John Mortimer having a keen sympathy with childhood, felt rue at heart
for the poor little blinking, sobbing fellow; but to invite him again
might be to have his mother also, so he let him go, handing in from his
third daughter's arms to the young heir a wretched little blind puppy
and a small bottle of milk to feed it with on the way.

If anything could comfort a boy, this precious article could. So the
Mortimer boys thought. So in fact it proved. As the train moved off they
heard the sobs of Peter and the yelping of the puppy, but before they
reached their happy home he had begun to nurse the little beast in his
arms, and derive consolation from watching its movements and keeping it
warm.

CHAPTER VI.

THE SHADOW OF A SHADE.

"The world would lose its finest joys
Without its little girls and boys;
Their careless glee and simple ruth,
And innocence and trust and truth;
Ah! what would your poor poet do
Without such little folk as you?"

Locker.

"Well, anyhow," observed Mr. Nicholas Swan, the gardener, when the
children came home and told him how Peter had cried--"anyhow, there's
one less on you now to run over my borders. He was as meek as Moses,
that child was, when first he came, but you soon made him as audacious
as any of you."

"So they did, Nicholas dear," said one of the twins, a tall, dark haired
child.

"Oh, it's Nicholas _dear_, is it, Miss Barbara? Well, now, what next?"

"Why, the key of the fruit-house--we want the key."

"Key, indeed! Now, there's where it is. Make a wry path through your
fields, and still you'll walk in it! I never ought to ha' got in the
habit of lending you that key. What's the good of a k