A few days later Mr. Anketell arrived for a fortnight's holiday, and all the sad story had to be told to him. He was terribly grieved and upset— grieved to see his bright, happy Stella so wan and quiet, and troubled sorely to think Paul had so far forgotten himself and his duty to the younger ones as to place their lives in danger.

"You cannot expect Michael to look up to you," said his father sternly. "And you are setting him a very bad example. I shall have to send for one of the maids to come and look after you all, for we cannot have such things happening! I will not have your mother so worried and frightened, and the children's lives jeopardised by your disobedience and foolhardiness."

And the maid would have been sent for had not Paul given his word to be more careful and better behaved in future.

Another person with whom Mr. Anketell was very irate was Farmer Minards; he blamed him greatly for leaving so dangerous a spot unguarded in any way, and he spoke so plainly about it that that very same day a man went out with a cartload of white hurdles to place around the margin of the morass. To every one else they were a comfort and a safeguard, but to Paul they were a shame and a constant reminder of his foolishness.

"Us'd have the moor speckled all over with white hurdles if we had you living here for long, sur." They were driving slowly along the road, Paul sitting beside Muggridge in the cart, when Muggridge pointed with his whip at the hurdles and laughed. A hot blush rushed over Paul's face, and a sudden furious anger against his companion surged up in his heart. How dare he laugh at him, a gentleman, and a visitor?

"You told me anybody light could get across," he said sulkily, and he looked away across the moor that Muggridge might not see the tears of anger and mortification which would well up in his eyes.

"So he could."

"Well you couldn't find anyone much lighter than I am, and I went in," and he shuddered at the recollection.

"Of course you did, and so would any one who hadn't the sense not to go right slap in the middle as you did. I meant right 'long out the edge, where Jim has put the hurdles."

Paul laughed contemptuously. "Why, any stupid could do that!" he said loftily. "Farmer Minards himself could walk there!"

"That just shows how much you know," said Muggridge, with an air of great knowingness. "It wouldn't bear me, and I ain't what you would call heavy."

"You are afraid, that's all," said Paul rudely.

For a moment Muggridge looked angry too. "I ain't feared," he said after a pause, "but I've got too much sense. I can't afford to spoil a pair of boots, and I doubt if any one would take the trouble to haul me out; but if they did—why, maister'd give me the sack before the mud had stopped running off me."

Paul laughed derisively. "It's easy enough to make excuses," he said, beginning to scramble down from the cart. "You are afraid, that's what it is, but I'll just show you I am not," and, paying no heed to Muggridge's call, he ran lightly round outside the hurdles. To his surprise the ground was almost hard. The man had placed the hurdles further out than Muggridge had thought, but Paul did not let him know that. The very spirit of bravado and mischief seemed to fill him as he mocked at his companion, and then, with a sudden mad impulse, he climbed over and attempted to run around inside. But here matters were different; the ground was soft and slimy, his feet stuck and began to sink; he tried to run lightly, but 'twas no good, and he clung to the hurdles in real fear. Muggridge, too, was alarmed. He realised suddenly that he was responsible for the young master's safety, that he had taunted him into his foolhardy action, and that the episode would not make a pleasant story for either of them to tell.

Springing out of the cart he ran to Paul's help, and had him out of the morass and in safety in less time than it takes to tell it. Both were so alarmed now that all thought of their quarrel had vanished from their minds. They were grateful that they were safe and the episode had ended as easily as it had; but their joy was short lived, for at the sight of Paul's boots they looked at each other with grave faces and frightened eyes. What was to be done? The state of them was bound to be noticed, for the weather was fine and dry, Muggridge scraped off what he could with bits of stick, and tufts of grass, but his efforts were not very successful, for the mud was thick and clinging, and Paul clambered back into the cart with a very, very heavy heart. He did not gloss over to himself the wrongfulness of his behaviour, or the seriousness of the situation. He was bound to be found out, and then he would perhaps be sent back to school, or one of the maids would be sent for to take charge of him, and a flush of shame mounted his forehead at the thought.

Then to avoid all the trouble he knew he would get into, Paul made the grave mistake people often make when once they have done wrong. To cover the first fault they commit another, and so start on what is often a long road of sin and misery, rather than courageously face at once the blame and punishment they deserve. The rest of the drive he did not enjoy at all, though it was one of the pleasures he loved most, as a rule; but his mind was fully occupied in trying to plan how he should escape detection and punishment.

Muggridge at first promised to clean the boots for him before anybody could see them, but the delay Paul had caused made them so late in getting home that he had to go at once to put the horse in his stable, and then hurry off to his own dinner. Besides, the mud was too wet as yet to be cleaned off. Paul was terribly upset at that. What would become of him, he wondered, and how could he manage? By that time all thought of confessing at once had gone from his mind; it seemed to him impossible to do it; he could think of nothing but concealment. But, luckily he thought, when they got back to the house there was no one about. It was close to the hour for the mid-day dinner. Mrs. Minards and the maids were busy in the kitchen, Mrs. Anketell and Stella were upstairs in their rooms. Paul could hardly believe his good fortune when he got past the windows, into the house, without meeting any one, and as he stood at the foot of the stairs listening, to try to discover where everyone was, and could hear no voices or footsteps near, his spirits rose. He crept upstairs swiftly and stealthily, almost without a sound, except for the creaking of a board in the passage outside his mother's door. She heard it, and called out, "Who is that? Is that Paul?" But he went on without answering, though he felt very mean for doing so, and soon gained his own room. He was scarcely a moment taking off his muddy boots and hiding them in the bottom of his play-box; then he put on his slippers, dabbed over the front of his head with a wet hair brush, smeared a little water over his face and hands, wiped the dirt off on the towel, and crept downstairs again in a few moments, as softly as he had crept up.

When Mrs. Anketell came down ten minutes later, saying, "I wish Paul had come, he will be late for dinner," she found him coiled up in the big arm-chair with a book on his knee, and apparently absorbed in the story. He was so deeply absorbed in fact that he did not look up when she spoke, not, indeed, until she exclaimed, "Oh, Paul, dear, then you are back. Have you been here long? I did not know you were in the house, and I was quite anxious about you."

Then he looked up at her with an abstracted air, as though his mind was still so deep in the story that it was closed to everything, and he could hardly hear or take in what she was saying. "No-o not very long," he answered vaguely, and to hide his eyes, which could not meet his mother's, he dropped them on to the pages again.

"Did you hurry back to go on with your book?" asked his mother, standing by him, and looking over his shoulder. "I am glad you find it so interesting. Father was afraid you did not care for it, as you never looked at it. But why do you hold it upside down, dear?"

Paul coloured hotly, and held his head lower to hide it. "To—to—the picture looks so funny this way," he said lamely, and then, to his great relief, the maid said dinner was ready, and he escaped any further embarrassment for the moment. But only for the moment.