“Tim, Tim, I know nought of who Tim is, my dearies,” said Barbara, shaking her head.  “If it’s any one that’s been good to you, so much the better.  I’ve been at Nooks, the village hard by, for some days with my niece.  I meant to have stayed but two or three nights, but I’ve been more nor a week, and a worry in my heart all the time not to get back home to hear if there was no news of you, and how my poor lady was.  And to think if I had gone home I wouldn’t have met you—­dear—­dear—­but the ordering of things is wonderful!”

“And didn’t you come to look for us, then?  But why is Toby with you?” asked the children.

“He was worritting your dear Grandmamma.  There was no peace with him after you were lost.  And though I didn’t rightly come to Monkhaven to look for you, I had a feeling—­it was bore in on me that I’d maybe find some trace of you, and I thought Toby would be the best help.  And truly I could believe he’d scented you were not far off—­the worry he’s been all this morning!  A-barking and a-sniffing and a-listening like!  I was in two minds as to which way I’d take this morning—­round by Monkhaven or by the lane.  But Toby he was all for the lane, and so I just took his way, the Lord be thanked!”

“He knowed us was here—­he did, didn’t he?  Oh, darling Toby!” cried the twins.

But then Barbara had to be told all.  Not very clear was the children’s account of their adventures at first; for the losing of Tim and the vision of the policeman and the canal boat were the topmost on their minds, and came tumbling out long before anything about the gipsies, which of course was the principal thing to tell.  Bit by bit, however, thanks to her patience, their old friend came to understand the whole.  She heaved a deep sigh at last.

“To think that it was the gipsies after all.”

But she made not many remarks, and said little about the broken-bowl-part of the story.  It would be for their dear Grandmamma to show them where they had been wrong, she thought modestly, if indeed they had not found it out for themselves already.  I think they had.

“Us is always going to tell Grandmamma everyfing now,” said Pamela.

“And us is always going to listen to the talking of that little voice,” added Duke.

But the first excitement over, old Barbara began to notice that the children were looking very white and tired.  How was she ever to get them to Brigslade—­a five miles’ walk at least—­where again, for she had chosen Brigslade market-day on purpose, she counted on Farmer Carson to give her a lift home?  She was not strong enough to carry them—­one at a time—­more than a short distance.  Besides she had her big basket.  Glancing at it gave her another idea.

“I can at least give you something to eat,” she said.  “Niece Turwall packed all manner of good things in here,” and, after some rummaging, out she brought two slices of home-made cake and a bottle of currant wine, of which she gave them each a little in a cup without a handle which Mrs. Turwall had thoughtfully put in.  The cake and the wine revived the children wonderfully.  They said they were able to walk “a long long way,” and indeed there was nothing for it but to try, and so the happy little party set off.