Here Farmer Carson had promised to take up Barbara, for his home lay a mile or two out of the village, all of which she kindly explained to her little companion as they went along.  She had a great habit of talking to herself, and she was so much alone that it was quite a treat to have “some one” to talk to, as she also informed Toby.  He looked up at her with his bright eyes, from time to time wagging his tail, “for all the world like a Christian,” thought Barbara, but nevertheless I am afraid he did not take in her information as fully as appeared.  For when, after they had sat waiting for him for some minutes, the worthy farmer drove up with a cheery “Good morning, Mrs. Twiss,” Toby had the impertinence to bark furiously at him and his most respectable old mare, as if they had not quite as good a right as he to the king’s highway!

This, of course caught the farmer’s attention.

“That’s a knowing little chap you’ve got with you, neighbour Twiss,” he said; “he favours the one at the Lodge, does he not?”

This naturally led to Barbara’s explaining that he was the one at the Lodge in person, and then she and her friend beguiled the way by talking over the sad and mysterious disappearance of the children.

It was very sad, and very strange, the farmer agreed.  Then he scratched his head with the hand that was not occupied with the reins.

“I’ve thought a deal about it,” he said, “and I’ve come to think it’s—­as likely as not—­gipsies after all.”

Barbara started.

“But there’s been none about,” she said, “not for ever so long.  The General”—­the General was Grandpapa—­“thought of that at the very first and asked all about.  But there’d been none heard of, and heard of they always are pretty quick, and none so pleasantly, as you should know well, Mr. Carson.”

“I do so, I do so,” he agreed, nodding his head.  “But they’re a cunning lot.  If they’d any reason for getting quick out of the way, they’d do it.  All I can tell you is this, and I only heard it last night:  one o’ my men coming home what he calls a short-cut way saw traces of a fire down by Black Marsh; and he’s certain sure the marks weren’t there the day before the children disappeared.  That was the last time he’d passed that way.”

“And that’s more nor a week past,” said Barbara.  “If it should be so,—­if the gipsies have really got them,—­they may be a long way off by now.”

“Just so,” said the farmer; “that’s the worst of it.  And no telling what road they’ve gone, neither.  No; I’m sadly afraid if it’s been gipsies there’s not much chance of seeing them again, unless they’re tempted by the rewards.  Pretty little creatures like that they can always make a good deal by, for those shows as goes about.  And they’re such babies—­only four or five years old, aren’t they?  They’ll soon forget where they come from and all.”

“Nay,” said Barbara, “they’re small for their age, for they’re six past.  But they’re not dull; no, indeed, they’re very quick children.  They’d not forget in a hurry.”