The boys had seized the opportunity of the attention of their elders being engaged elsewhere to get into mischief. Although they had made so much fuss about their right of way to school, it was not the only way they used. They had, in fact, several ways. One was by train to Baskerton, a village on the river five miles away, and thence, by lanes and the parks, home. This, however, required time and the absence of authorities. Another way was through Easton and the parks, up the course of the little stream, which at one point nearly touched the Court gardens. In this stream, its shallow waters splashing up against their ankles, the boys were walking, and the baby was prancing between them.

"Should we take Barbe with us?" David had asked, pausing on the Green.

"If we can get her," Sandy had replied.

The boys reconnoitred, and the piercing whistle, which set the baby all a-quiver with expectation, sounded through the garden.

"There then, go!" said nurse somewhat crossly, as Barbe began to stamp; and she went. Her education was proceeding apace. Her father sometimes listened aghast at the things which, in her baby prattle, she reported herself to have done.

"See, Barbe, there's a rat!" Sandy said eagerly, as a flop and a splash made them jump. "See, it's swimmin' away."

"'Wimmin' away," said the baby, stooping to look, her two hands on her two knees, and the front of her frock sailing on the water before her.

"Oh, Barbe, you're all wet!" David said, as they landed, and strolled up the field.

"Wet!" she echoed delightedly. "Foots—f'ock!"

"You'll have to be dried."

"I know," said Sandy cheerfully; "we'll dry you by the Bishop's fire—almost sure to be a fire."

But the study window, to which they crept warily by sheltered ways, was shut. The Bishop was absent.

"Now what's to be done?" said David.

"I know where there's a fire," Sandy said. "Was this morning, 'cos of that lead. Let's take her to the little room."

Again they slipped by leafy ways out of the Palace garden into the cathedral yard. The baby's wet skirts flopped round her, and David lifted her into his arms.

The approach of Mrs. Lytchett, returning from the Deanery in unwonted bravery of attire, prompted them to seek refuge behind a tomb. Here it took the boys' whole attention to prevent Barbe's chatter drawing unwished-for notice upon them.

"Hush! Barbe, don't call!" entreated Sandy.

"Barbedie good girl," announced the baby in a loud voice, lifting herself on tip-toe to see the passer-by.

Mrs. Lytchett's ears were good, and, besides, she felt certain at this point that her eyes had seen something fluttering. She stepped off the pathway, and examined a tomb near.

"Hush!—sh—sh!" cautioned David, holding up his finger to his mouth—a movement which so pleased Barbe that she proceeded to copy it.

Mrs. Lytchett passed on; the danger was over. David lifted up the baby and carried her into a little octagon room near by, built in the wall of the cathedral, and used frequently as a workroom or office.

Here the boys were at home. It was the head-quarters of their greatest friends—the masons engaged on the renovations always in progress at the cathedral.

In the grate were the slowly dying embers of a fire, and the room was empty.

"Mr. Galton ain't locked up yet, knowed he wouldn't," said Sandy. "He likes his tea punctual—'spects it's time. Now, Barbe, come an' get done."

Whilst David was holding the baby to the fire, Sandy disappeared, presently returning with an excited face.

"They've nearly done," he said. "It's prime up there. Seems to me, we'd best settle as soon as possible."

"This baby won't get dry," said David, gloomily. "Just look at her!"

"I know," said Sandy, regarding the bedraggled Barbe. "We'll take it off an' leave it here. An' I'll fetch her somefink. Sure to be somefink stored in Margie's basket—know Orme made holes in himself last week."

So it happened that it was a little blue girl—clad in one of Orme's shabbiest overalls—who met Mrs. Bethune's returning chair, and was lifted to her knee for a "yide."

"But what has happened? where are her own clothes?" Mrs. Bethune asked, recognising the substitute.

"We thought they were just a little damp," said Sandy in explanation, climbing up the back of the chair to kiss his mother.

"Good boy, Sandy!" said his mother, "to take care of her."

"But how did they get damp?" asked Marjorie suspiciously.

"Just a little water p'raps got on them," he replied, feeling the tone unkind after his mother's praise.

"Then you have been in mischief?" asked Marjorie.

"Barbedie walked in er water," the baby replied, as if she had been doing a good work.

"You shouldn't have let her," Mrs. Bethune said caressingly.

"Barbe don't want lettin'," answered Sandy philosophically. "She does wivout."

The sweets of mischief whetted the boys' appetites for more. They applied themselves with zeal to a work they had in hand, and for the next few days little was seen of them.

One evening they were standing in a disused corner of the Palace grounds, under the ruined window of the old banqueting hall, which formed part of the wall enclosing the gardens of the modern wing of the house. The corner where they stood was immediately adjoining the wall of their own garden, and was part of an overgrown shrubbery between the ruins and the parks.

Both boys were exceedingly dirty. Faces, capless heads, fingers, clothes, all bore traces of the underground work from which they had just emerged. They had burrowed from their cave, and were mightily pleased at their point of exit. No place could be more secluded, nor less likely to be discovered. And from the ruined wall close by, under the shelter of a spreading elder, they were able to drop easily either into the cathedral yard or the Bishop's garden.

"Now the game begins. We've got a base of operations," said David grandly.

"How much?" asked Sandy.

"What you work from, and what you fall back upon, if you get besieged. And it's a good base too," he added, looking round. "We've got to make this passage hard and firm, and then hide it from that prying gardener."

"An' we can pay back Mrs. Lytchett," said Sandy with joy.

"How?"

"Oh, I know! She just hates us going to the Bishop's window. He told me he'd just got a new tin of gingerbread, an' now we can get in wivout goin' through the gate. She's made that gate so it clicks."

"But you mustn't let her see."

"Not me! If she comes, we'll just run round the house, and she'll fink we've come back way. And then she'll run round to catch us, an' we shan't be there."

Sandy spoke with the certainty of much experience, as, indeed, he had a right to do.

"Our character is all gone," David said thoughtfully, "so it don't much matter how bad we are."

"No, s'long as it ain't wicked bad. We'll be highwaymen, but we won't be thieves and robbers."

"We can get into the cathedral, too," suggested David.

And then, with minds full of revolution and anarchy, the boys bent earnestly to the preliminary work of making their passage secure.

"Ross and Orme, you're never to go along there without us," David said to his young brothers, when he had wriggled back to the cave whence his passage started. Now their services were no longer needed, they were felt to be rather nuisances.

"If you do, you'll get smacked right hard," said Sandy.

Both children fixed round eyes on their elders, unable to understand this sudden change. They were dismayed at its injustice. For some days they had been treated with indulgent kindness, all their faults overlooked, so long as they did diligent work. They were cleaned when possible, and consoled when their dirty appearance awoke wrath in the powers responsible for them. Now, it seemed, all was changed. There was no mistaking Sandy's attitude, as he stood ready to administer the smacks alluded to. Nor were David's frowning brows more encouraging.

Ross tried argument. "We'se scooped, too," he said. "We'se got dirty, ever so," he added.

"Ever so," echoed Orme.

"No matter! You kids must do as you're bid, and if ever you go a step along there you'll catch it. See?" said David. And the infants, with moody brows, averred that they saw.

By this time the hole which formed the entrance to the cave was much improved. The wooden steps had been replaced by a flight of mud steps, the making of which had been a joy, not only to the boys, but to the baby. They had required water as well as mud in their making—endless paddlings and pattings and treadings down of little feet before the staircase was complete. David had engineered the proceedings, and Mr. Warde, now and then hovering about the top, had conferred advice. He was not encouraged to descend. The boys wanted no prying grown-ups to mar their schemes. Marjorie, now and then, had suspicions that some extra mischief was afloat. Never before had she known them to stick to anything for so long. But she recollected the fascination of caves and holes, and was, besides, much engaged with her own concerns.

One evening the Bishop, on leaving the drawing-room, had gone to his study. It had been a wet day, and the rain had finished in a thunderstorm an hour or so before, leaving the sky washed and pellucid under the summer moon.

The shutters had been closed and a little fire lighted; but presently, finding the room warm, the Bishop opened the window, and stood gazing over the wide lawn which occupied the space between the house and the ruins.

The delicate tracery of the ruined window of the banqueting hall, and the many unevennesses of the walls, stood out black against the sky. Every object on the lawn—every bush and tree and flower—was sharply distinct.

As he looked, his eye caught a movement among the distant shrubs. Some small object was advancing along the gravelled walk surrounding the lawn. Presently, as if attracted by the light, it turned off the pathway on to the lawn, in a bee-line for the window.

The Bishop stood watching, wondering a little, when the object resolved itself first into a small boy, and then into Sandy Bethune.

"Why, Sandy!" he exclaimed, "how did you get here?"

"Is it the middle of the night?" asked Sandy in his usual cheerful way.

"Nearly. It's half-past eleven. Good gracious! What have you been doing?"

For, on approaching the light, Sandy was seen to be covered with mud and otherwise much disarrayed.

Sandy considered. He was in a deep fix—so deep a one as to threaten the upheaval and overthrow of some well-laid plans, just on the point of being carried out. The Bishop was an understanding man. Sandy had confided in him before, and knew his worth. If only Mrs. Lytchett did not live at the Palace, and spoil everything, Sandy would have been quite willing to share that residence with the Bishop. He had once told the Bishop so, artlessly asking when Mrs. Lytchett was going away to live elsewhere. The Bishop, on his side, found the children of his friend very charming, specially so irrepressible Sandy; and was ready to be lenient when their peccadilloes were in question. He now invited Sandy in, despite the muddy covering which encased him from head to foot. Sitting down, he began to question him gravely.

"What is it, Sandy? Why are you in such a mess?"

Sandy sat down on a little stool, as if glad to present his small person to the fire, and said, "It's the bovering funderstorm. We'd never thought of that. An' we got caught, an' had to take shelter, an' when we got back our way was bunged up—all squashy with mud. An' we hadn't got no spades nor fings out with us. So at last I said I would go and scout—you know—an' then I saw you."

"Who's 'we'?" asked the Bishop.

"Me an' David."

"And how did you get into my garden?"

"Oh, over the wall. We're highwaymen, and we've got a way of our own."

"Indeed. And where's David now?"

"Oh, he's over there, all muddy, tryin' to clean himself. He's a deal worse than me," said Sandy cheerfully.

"He must indeed be bad, then. What do you propose to do?"

"That's it. We can't get back to the pantry window now our way's gone," said artless Sandy. "Not in at all, not wivout knockin' at the door. I did think p'raps"—persuasively—"you cud come and knock."

"I see. And then?"

"Then, when you was talkin' to father, we cud slip in. Don't fink father would see—not to notice."

"How long have you been highwaymen?" the Bishop asked.

"On'y about a week—and this is a sickener," said Sandy disgustedly. "We was ghosts for a bit at first—till a woman screeched so we nearly got caught, stupid fing!"

And the Bishop, remembering certain reports that had been made to him, was pleased with his acumen in refusing to call in the police.

"If I were you, I should try a better line of business," he said. "Ghosts frighten silly women, and highwaymen are not very creditable, on the whole."

"Yes," agreed Sandy. "We're goin' to. Next we're goin' to be pioneers and settlers."

"Ah, I see. And where are you going to settle?"

Sandy's bright eyes were turned suspiciously to the kind ones looking down upon him. He fidgeted uneasily, and a smile came across the Bishop's face.

"I see," he said. "Perhaps you have not yet made up your minds."

Sandy looked uncomfortable. "Not 'zactly," he confessed. "Truth is, it depends—I don't fink Dave would like me to tell. It's such a grand plan," he went on enthusiastically, "it 'ud be such a pity——"

"To have it spoilt. Well, don't get into more mischief than you can help," the Bishop cautioned, "and don't do anything to make your mother uneasy."

"Mother? Oh, mother'll laugh—she always does. You see, the bother is," confided Sandy, "there ain't no places to pioneer—every bit's taken. An' we've on'y just thought on it; an' it's splendid. We want a girl badly, though. Margie? No, Margie's no good. Settlers has wives an' squaws," went on Sandy pensively, "and we've on'y got Barbe lately, an' she's aw'fly little. 'Sides, you have to take such care on her—she's the on'y one Mr. Pelham's got. There's a lot of us, but mother says she cudn't spare not the littlest bit of one. So much less him his one, an' such a little one. It's a 'sponsibility," sighed Sandy, "when you want to do fings."

Through the open window came the musical sound of the chimes from the cathedral. The Bishop, with a quick sigh, rose.

"There is a quarter to twelve. Your father will be going to bed. Fetch David quickly."

"Should fink he's cleaned by now," said Sandy hopefully. "He was rubbin' himself wiv the leaves off the trees—drippin' wet."

Mr. Bethune opened his front door in response to a low knocking, which at first he did not hear. His eyes had the unseeing, far-away look in them of a man disturbed in a possessing line of thought. The red light in the hall shone on the face of the Bishop, who entered and stood on the doormat for a minute, in such a position as to shield the entrance of the two muddy boys.

"Here is the Guardian for you," he said, "with a very appreciative notice of your paper." Then he went on, "And tell Marjorie to-morrow morning not to be too cross with the state of the boys' clothes. They've been in mischief, but it won't happen again—not the same sort."

The two men looked at one another and laughed, and the father pretended not to hear the scuffling of small feet upon the stairs. The Bishop went home with no weight on his conscience—only a little pathetic envy of the man he had just left. Somehow those stifled scufflings up the stairs had gone straight to the depths of his very tender and lonely heart.

"The Bishop knows all 'bout it," excused Sandy sturdily, when confronted by Marjorie the next morning.

"The Bishop knows that all your clothes are in the bath, with both taps running!"

"Well, he does," Sandy repeated, "proberly. He said we were the out-an'-outest dirtiest little grubs he'd ever seen."

"That you are—no one will contradict him. But he couldn't know that your clothes were in the bath."

"Yes, he would. If they were so dirty, where else could they be? It's all that 'gustin' funderstorm."

"Thunderstorm!" echoed Marjorie suspiciously. "That was at ten o'clock. What has that got to do with your clothes and the Bishop?"

"Tell you it has. You'd best ask him, if you don't b'lieve me," said Sandy, hurt at her unbelief. "Anyhow, he does know that they was dirty. An' just cos we want to save trouble an' wash 'em ourselves, you're cross an' spiteful. Girls are no good—'cept little uns. What's there to put on? Best be somefink old, cos there's a deal of diggin' to be done."

"I shall stop that digging if you make such a mess of yourselves."

"You'd best not," said David meaningly, from his bed in the further corner. "If you do, you'll be sorry," he said darkly.

END OF CHAPTER SIX.