on.  It seemed, however, that father was not going to the post-office any more, and this caused Jack to picture a series of delightfully amusing days.  When father had finished talking he appeared to expect Jack to say something, but Jack contented himself with trying to look interested, for he knew that it was always very stupid of little boys not to understand things they didn’t understand.  In reality he felt as if he had been listening while his father argued aloud with himself, talking up and down like an earthquake map.

At breakfast they were still subdued, but afterwards, as the morning wore on, father became livelier and helped Jack to build a hut in the back garden.  They built it of bean-sticks against the wall at the end, and father broke up a packing-case to get planks for the roof.  Only mother still had a sad face, and it made Jack angry with her, that she should be such a spoil-fun.  After dinner, while Jack was playing in the hut, Mr. Simmons, of the police-station, and another gentleman called to take father for a walk, and Jack went down to the front to see them off.  Jack knew Mr. Simmons very well; he had been to tea with his little boy, but though he thought him a fine sort of man he could not help feeling proud of his father when he saw them side by side.  Mr. Simmons looked as if he were ashamed of himself, while father walked along with square shoulders and a high head as if he had just done something splendid.  The other gentleman looked like nothing at all beside father.

When they were out of sight Jack went into the house and found mother crying in the kitchen.  As he felt more tolerant in his after-dinner mood, he tried to cheer her up by telling her how fine father had looked beside the other two men.  Mother raised her face, all swollen and spoilt with weeping, and gazed at her son in astonishment.  “They are taking him to prison,” she wailed, “and God knows what will become of us.”

For a moment Jack felt alarmed.  Then a thought came to him and he smiled, like a little boy who has just found a new and delightful game.  “Never mind, mother,” he said, “we’ll help him to escape.”

But mother would not stop crying.

Shepherd’s Boy

The path climbed up and up and threatened to carry me over the highest point of the downs till it faltered before a sudden outcrop of chalk and swerved round the hill on the level.  I was grateful for the respite, for I had been walking all day and my knapsack was growing heavy.  Above me in the blue pastures of the skies the cloud-sheep were grazing, with the sun on their snowy backs, and all about me the grey sheep of earth were cropping the wild pansies that grew wherever the chalk had won a covering of soil.

Presently I came upon the shepherd standing erect by the path, a tall, spare man with a face that the sun and the wind had robbed of all expression.  The dog at his feet looked more intelligent than he.  “You’ve come up from the valley,” he said as I passed; “perhaps you’ll have seen my boy?”