“It’s come right so far, leastways as far as a dream could be like to real things,” he reflected.  “I don’t see why it shouldn’t come right all through.  Just to think how proud I’d be if they’d make me stable-boy, or gardener’s lad maybe, and I could feel I were earning something and had a place o’ my own in the world.  That’s what mother would ’a wished for me.  ’Never mind how humble you are if you’re earning your bread honest-like,’ I’ve oft heard her say.  Poor mother, she’d be glad to know I was out o’ that lot anyway,” and Tim’s imagination pointed back to the gipsy caravan.  “All, saving Diana—­what a lot they are, to be sure!  I’m sure and I hope she’ll get out of it some day.  ’Tis best to hope anyway, so I’ll try not to be down-hearted,” and again Tim glanced up at the lovely sky.  “If I could but make a good guess now which of them there stars is heaven, or the way into it anyway, I’d seem to know better-like where poor mother is, and I’d look for it every night.  I’m going to try to be a better lad, mother dear.  I can promise you that, and somehow I can’t help thinking things ’ll come straighter for me.”

And then Tim curled himself round like a dormouse, and shut up his bright merry eyes, and in five minutes was fast asleep.

He had kept awake later than he knew probably, for the next morning’s sun was higher in the skies than he had intended it should be when a slight shake of his arm and a not unfriendly though rough voice awoke him.  Up he jumped in a fright, for he had not yet got over the fear of being pursued.

“What’s the matter?” he cried, but Peter—­for Peter it was—­soon reassured him.

“Naught’s the matter,” he said, “don’t be afeared, but we’re close to Monkhaven.  I’ve got to go on to the wharf, but that’s out o’ your way.  I thought we’d best talk over like what you’d best do.  I’ve been up early; I want to get to the wharf before it’s crowded.  So after you’ve had some breakfast, you and the little uns, what d’ye think of next?”

“To find the quickest road to Sandle’ham,” said Tim; “that’s the only place they can tell the name of near their home.  Diana,” he went on, “Diana thought as how I’d better go straight to the police at Monkhaven and tell them the whole story, only not so as to set them after Mick if I can help it.  She said the police here is sure to know of the children’s being stolen by now, and they’d put us in the way of getting quick to their home.”

“I think she’s right,” said Peter.  “I’d go with you myself, but my master’s a sharp one, and I’d get into trouble for leaving the boat and the horse, even if he didn’t mind my having took passengers for onst,” he added, with a smile.

“No, no,” said Tim, “I’ll manage all right.  Not that I like going to the police, but if so be as it can’t be helped.  And look here, Peter,” he went on, drawing out of the inside of his jacket a little parcel carefully pinned to the lining, “talking of passengers, this is all I can give you at present.  It was all Diana could get together, but I feel certain sure, as I told you, the old gentleman and lady will do something handsome when they hear how good you’ve been,” and out of the little packet he gradually, for the coins were enveloped in much paper, produced a half-crown, three shillings, and some coppers.