“Diana is very kind now,” said Pamela, one day when she and Duke had been allowed for once to run about a little with the other children.  There certainly seemed small risk in their doing so, for the gipsies had encamped for the night on a desolate moor, where no human habitations of any kind were in sight, no passers-by to be feared.

“Yes,” said Duke, who had hold of Tim’s other hand; “she makes us nice and clean and tidy.”

“And she’s making a gown for me,” said Pamela.  “It’s made of my own white gown, but she’s sewing rows of red and blue and gold round it.  And she says if Duke is good she’s going to make him a red jacket.  Isn’t it kind of her?  Do you know, Tim,” she went on in a lower tone, “us has been thinking that perhaps they’re meaning to take us home soon, and that they want us to look very nice.  Do you think it’s that, Tim?  I’m sure Grandpapa and Grandmamma would be so pleased they’d give them lots of money if they took us back.”

“I’m afeared it’s not taking you home they’re thinking of, missie,” said Tim grimly.

“Then why don’t you help us to run away, Tim?” said Duke impatiently.  “I’ve asked you and asked you.  I’m sure us might run away now—­there’s nobody looking after us.”

“And where would we run to?” said Tim.  “There’s not a mortal house nor a tree even to be seen.  Run away, indeed!  We’d be cotched—­cotched afore we’d run half a mile.  And yet it’s the very first time you’ve bin let run about a little.  I’m ready enough to run away, but no good running away to be cotched again—­it ’ud be worser nor ever.”

“Then is us never to run away?  Is us never to see Grandpapa, and Grandmamma, and Dymock, and Biddy, and Nurse, and Toby—­oh, dear Toby!—­and the garden, and the nursery, and our little beds, again?” said both children, speaking together and helping each other with the list of their lost blessings, and in the end bursting into tears.

Tim looked at them ruefully.

“Don’t ’ee now, don’t ’ee, master and missy,” he said anxiously.  “They’ll see you’ve been crying, and they’ll not let you out any more.”

Duke and Pamela tried to choke down their sobs.

“Will you try to help us to run away, then, if us is very good—­Tim, dear Tim, oh do,” they said piteously.  And Tim tried to soothe them with kind words and promises to do his best.

Poor fellow, he was only too ready to run away for his own sake as well as theirs.  The feelings which had been stirred and reawakened by the children’s companionship had not slumbered again; on the contrary, they seemed to gain strength every day.  Every day he felt more and more loathing for his present life; every night when he tumbled into the ragged heap which was called his bed he said to himself more strongly that he must get away—­he could not bear to think that his mother, looking down on him from the heaven in which she had taught him to believe, could see him the dirty careless gipsy boy he had become.  It was wonderful how her words came back to him now—­how every time he could manage to get a little talk with his new friends their gentle voices and pretty ways seemed to revive old memories that he had not known were there.  And the thought of rescuing them,—­of succeeding in taking them safe back to their own home,—­opened a new door for him.