“Better have done with it, I should say,” said the other woman, who was much younger and nicer-looking, but still with a rather sullen and discontented face.

“That’s just like her,” said Mick.  “What we’d come to if we listened to her talk it beats me to say.”

“You’ve not come to much good by not listening to it,” retorted Diana fiercely.  But Tim, who had gone towards her, said something in a low voice which seemed to calm her.

“It’s true—­we’ll only waste our time if we take to quarrelling,” she said.  “What’s to be done, then?”

“We must put the panniers back, and the girl must sit between them somehow,” said the man.  “She can’t walk—­the boy must run beside.”

So saying, he lifted both children off the donkey, not so gently but that Pamela gave a cry as her sore foot touched the ground.  But no one except Duke paid any attention to her, not even Tim, which she thought very unkind of him.  She said so in a low voice to Duke, but he whispered to her to be quiet.

“If only my foot was not sore, now us could have runned away,” she could not help whispering again.  For all the gipsies seemed so busy in loading themselves and the donkey that for a few minutes the children could have fancied they had forgotten all about them.  It was not so, however.  As soon as the panniers were fastened on again Mick turned to Pamela, and, without giving her time to resist, placed her again on the donkey.  It was very uncomfortable for her; her poor little legs were stretched out half across the panniers, and she felt that the moment the donkey moved she would surely fall off.  So, as might have been expected, she began to cry.  The gipsy was turning to her with some rough words, when Diana interfered.

“Let me settle her,” she said.  “What a fool you are, Mick!” Then she drew out of her own bundle a rough but not very dirty checked wool shawl, with which she covered the little girl, who was shivering with cold, and at the same time made a sort of cushion for her with one end of it, so that she could sit more securely.

“Thank you,” said Pamela, amidst her sobs; “but oh I hope it’s not very far to home.”

Mick stood looking on, and at this he gave a sneering laugh.

“It’s just as well to have covered her up,” he said.  “Isn’t there another shawl as’d do for the boy?  Not that it matters; we’ll meet no one the road we’re going.  The sooner we’re off the better.”

He took hold of the bridle and set off as fast as he could get the donkey to go.  Diana kept her place beside it, so that, even if Pamela had fallen off, it would only have been into the young woman’s arms.  Duke followed with Tim and the other woman, but he had really to “run,” as Mick had said, for his short legs could not otherwise have kept up with the others.  He was soon too out of breath to speak—­besides, he dared not have said anything to Tim in the hearing of “the missus,” of whom he was almost more afraid than even of Mick.  And the only sign of friendliness Tim, on his side, dared show him was by taking his hand whenever he thought the woman would not notice.  But, tired as he was already, Duke could not long have kept up; he felt as if he must have cried out, when suddenly they came to a turning in the road and the gipsy stopped.