“I suppose they haven’t missed me a scrap,” was her bitter thought, when she heard how everything seemed going on as usual, while she had been living through so much just to see them all.

Then the odd feeling of faintness came back, and she closed her eyes again and lay motionless, forgetful of time, place, or hunger.

Bunty sped across the paddock on winged feet; the sight of his father near the stables gave him a momentary shock, and brought his own trouble to mind, but he shook it off again and hurried on.  The pantry door was locked.  Martha, the cook, kept it in that condition generally on account of his own sinful propensities for making away with her tarts and cakes; it was only by skilful stratagem he could ever get in, as he remembered dejectedly.

But Judy’s hunger!  Nothing to eat since yesterday morning!

He remembered, with a feeling of pain even now, the horrible sinking sensation he had experienced last week when for punishment he had been sent to bed without his tea.  And Judy had forgone three meals!  He shut his lips tightly, and a light of almost heroic resolve came into his eyes.  Round at the side of the house was the window to the pantry; he had often gazed longingly up at it, but had never ventured to attempt the ascent, for there was a horrible cactus creeper up the wall.

But now for Judy’s sake he would do it or die.  He marched round the house and up to the side window; no one was about, the whole place seemed very quiet.  Martha, as he had seen, was cooking in the kitchen, and the other girl was whitening the front veranda.  He gave one steady look at the great spiky thorns, and the next minute was climbing up among them.

Oh, how they pierced and tore him!  There was a great, jagged wound up one arm, his left stocking was ripped away and a deep red scratch showed across his leg, his hands were bleeding and quivering with pain.

But he had reached the sill, and that was everything.

He pushed up the narrow window, and with much difficulty forced his little fat body through.  Then he dropped down on to a shelf, and lowered himself gingerly on to the floor.  There was no time to stay to look at his many hurts, he merely regarded the biggest scratch with rueful eyes, and then began to look around for provender.  The pantry was remarkably empty—­not a sign of cakes, not a bit of jelly, not a remnant of fowl anywhere.  He cut a great piece off a loaf, and carefully wrapped some butter in a scrap of newspaper.  There was some corned beef on a dish, and he cut off a thick lump and rolled it up with the remains of a loquat tart.  These parcels he disposed of down the loose front of his sailor coat, filling up his pockets with sultanas, citron-peel, currants, and such dainties as the store bottles held.  And then he prepared to make his painful retreat.

He climbed upon the shelf once more, put his head out of the window, and gave a look of despair at the cactus.  And even as he knelt there sounded behind him the sharp click of a turning key.