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      So they were marched into the Vicarage study, and the Vicar's wife came rushing in.

      "Oh, William, are you safe?" she cried.

      Robert hastened to allay her anxiety.

      "Yes," he said, "he's quite safe. We haven't hurt them at all. And please, we're very late, and they'll be anxious at home. Could you send us home in your carriage?"

      "Or perhaps there's a hotel near where we could get a carriage," said Anthea. "Martha will be very anxious as it is."

      The Vicar had sunk into a chair, overcome by emotion and amazement.

      Cyril had also sat down, and was leaning forward with his elbows on his knees because of the soda-water syphon.

      "But how did you come to be locked up in the church-tower?" asked the Vicar.

      "We went up," said Robert slowly, "and we were tired, and we all went to sleep, and when we woke up we found the door was locked, so we yelled."

      "I should think you did!" said the Vicar's wife. "Frightening everybody out of their wits like this! You ought to be ashamed of yourselves."

      "We are," said Jane gently.

      "But who locked the door?" asked the Vicar.

      "I don't know at all," said Robert, with perfect truth. "Do please send us home."

      "Well, really," said the Vicar, "I suppose we'd better. Andrew, put the horse to, and you can take them home."

      "Not alone, I don't," said Andrew to himself.

      And the Vicar went on, "let this be a lesson to you"——— He went on talking, and the children listened miserably. But the keeper was not listening. He was looking at the unfortunate Cyril. He knew all about poachers, of course, so he knew how people look when they're hiding something. The Vicar had just got to the part about trying to grow up to be a blessing to your parents, and not a trouble and disgrace, when the keeper suddenly said—

      "Arst him what he's got there under his jacket;" and Cyril knew that concealment was at an end. So he stood up, and squared his shoulders and tried to look noble, like the boys in books that no one can look in the face of and doubt that they come of brave and noble families, and will be faithful to the death, and he pulled out the syphon and said—

      "Well, there you are, then."

      There was silence. Cyril went on—there was nothing else for it—

      "Yes, we took this out of your larder, and some chicken and tongue and bread. We were very hungry, and we didn't take the custard or jam. We only took bread and meat and water,—and we couldn't help its being soda kind,—just the necessaries of life; and we left half-a-crown to pay for it, and we left a letter. And we're very sorry. And my father will pay a fine and anything you like, but don't send us to prison. Mother would be so vexed. You know what you said about not being a disgrace. Well, don't you go and do it to us—that's all! We're as sorry as we can be. There!"

      "However did you get up to the larder window?" said Mrs. Vicar.

      "I can't tell you that," said Cyril firmly.

      "Is this the whole truth you've been telling me?" asked the clergyman.

      "No," answered Jane suddenly; "it's all true, but it's not the whole truth. We can't tell you that. It's no good asking. Oh, do forgive us and take us home!" She ran to the Vicar's wife and threw her arms round her. The Vicar's wife put her arms round Jane, and the keeper whispered behind his hand to the Vicar—

      "They're all right, sir—I expect it's a pal they're standing by. Someone put 'em up to it, and they won't peach. Game little kids."

      "Tell me," said the Vicar kindly, "are you screening someone else? Had anyone else anything to do with this?"

      "Yes," said Anthea, thinking of the Psammead; "but it wasn't their fault."

      "Very well, my dears," said the Vicar, "then let's say no more about it. Only just tell us why you wrote such an odd letter."

      "I don't know," said Cyril. "You see, Anthea wrote it in such a hurry, and it really didn't seem like stealing then. But afterwards, when we found we couldn't get down off the church-tower, it seemed just exactly like it. We are all very sorry"—

      "Say no more about it," said the Vicar's wife; "but another time just think before you take other people's tongues. Now—some cake and milk before you go home?"

      When Andrew came to say that the horse was put to, and was he expected to be led alone into the trap that he had plainly seen from the first, he found the children eating cake and drinking milk and laughing at the Vicar's jokes. Jane was sitting on the Vicar's wife's lap.

      So you see they got off better than they deserved.

      The gamekeeper, who was the cook's cousin, asked leave to drive home with them, and Andrew was only too glad to have someone to protect him from that trap he was so certain of.

      When the wagonette reached their own house, between the chalk-quarry and the gravel-pit, the children were very sleepy, but they felt that they and the keeper were friends for life.

      Andrew dumped the children down at the iron gate without a word.

      "You get along home," said the Vicarage cook's cousin, who was a gamekeeper. "I'll get me home on shanks' mare."

      So Andrew had to drive off alone, which he did not like at all, and it was the keeper that was cousin to the Vicarage cook who went with the children to the door, and, when they had been swept to bed in a whirlwind of reproaches, remained to explain to Martha and the cook and the housemaid exactly what had happened. He explained so well that Martha was quite amicable the next morning.

      After that he often used to come over and see Martha, and in the end—but that is another story, as dear Mr. Kipling says.

      Martha was obliged to stick to what she had said the night before about keeping the children indoors the next day for a punishment. But she wasn't at all ugly about it, and agreed to let Robert go out for half an hour to get something he particularly wanted.

      This, of course, was the day's wish.

      Robert rushed to the gravel-pit, found the Psammead, and presently wished for—

      But that, too, is another story.

      Chapter VI.

       A Castle and No Dinner

       Table of Contents

      The others were to be kept in as a punishment for the misfortunes of the day before. Of course Martha thought it was naughtiness, and not misfortune—so you must not blame her. She only thought she was doing her duty. You know, grown-up people often say they do not like to punish you, and that they only do it for your own good, and that it hurts them as much as it hurts you—and this is really very often the truth.

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