Muggridge had told him to bring his boots out to the boot-house, when he could manage to get them there without any one seeing him, that he might clean them for him, and nobody be the wiser. So Paul waited anxiously for the opportunity. He knew it must be done soon, as his mother would miss the boots and make inquiries about them, for he had only the one pair of strong everyday boots now besides his best ones, as the others had been almost spoilt by his first adventure in the morass, and had been sent away to the shoemaker's.

As soon as dinner was finished his troubles began again.

"I am going to walk to Four Bridges this afternoon," said Mr. Anketell; "who will go with me? We will have tea there, and walk home in the evening."

Stella and Michael jumped with delight. They enjoyed this sort of excursion more than anything that could be offered them; and, as a rule, Paul enjoyed it even more than they. But to-day he did not express his usual pleasure, and sat looking red and embarrassed when his father looked questioningly at him.

"Well, Paul, what do you say?" he asked, wondering at the boy's silence.

"I—I should like to go very much," stammered Paul awkwardly, "but I've hurt my foot. I hurt it jumping out of the cart."

This, to a certain extent, was true, but under ordinary circumstances Paul would have been the last to allow such a trifle to keep him from anything he desired. A series of questions followed, which he found very difficult to answer, and finally Paul had to submit to having his ankle bound with a wet cloth, while Mrs. Anketell decided to give up the afternoon's excursion and stay at home with him. "And we will have tea in the orchard," she said consolingly, "to make up for the loss of our tea at Four Bridges; that will be pleasanter than having it indoors." The kinder they were to him the more unhappy and uncomfortable Paul felt, and the less chance he saw of carrying out his plan; but his lowness of spirits stood him in good stead here, for his mother and father put it down to the pain he was suffering, and no one questioned the truth of his story about the injured foot.

But his impatience and his anxiety were such as he never forgot. It seemed to him ages before the little party started off on their expedition; first there was one hindrance and then another, until he could have screamed with impatience and anxiety, and even when they were gone he could not get away, for his mother sat with him and read to him, and he watched with dread the hands of the clock go round, as the afternoon wore quickly away. The boots must be cleaned before to-morrow morning, or the traces of his escapade would betray him.

At last, however, Mrs. Anketell stopped reading, and said she must write a letter. And Paul, without a moment's delay, seized the opportunity to limp from the room. He really had to limp now, for the bandage was so tight about his ankle that he could not bend it. Mrs. Anketell, hearing his uneven steps, called to him not to use his foot too much. "All right," he called back willingly, for he was only too thankful that she did not prohibit him from using it altogether. Then he stumbled out to the stairs, and clambering up them a good deal faster than he usually moved, reached his room without further interruption. His heart was beating furiously with excitement and fear, but he could not pause a moment to steady himself, for he felt he had not a second to lose. Dragging his play-box softly out from under the bed, he plunged his hand to the bottom and soon drew out his troublesome boots; then tucking them under his coat, which barely served to cover them, he slid down the banisters to save all noise, and tore out into the yard, and around the corner to the boot-house, as though a pack of wolves was after him. But, in turning the corner, he came face to face with something he had not expected, and that was the burly form of Farmer Minards himself. Paul's heart sunk like lead, and he went cold all over with apprehension.

"Hullo, young gentleman," said the old man, "I thought you was laid by the heels?"

Paul tried to smile. "I hurt my foot, and couldn't walk to Four Bridges, but it isn't much."

"Where be 'ee off now?" asked the farmer, looking anxiously at the funny-shaped protuberances under Paul's arms. "Be 'ee going for a stroll by yerself? Can't keep in, I s'pose, but must be out in the fresh air."

"Oh, I—I ain't going far," stammered Paul. "I am only just having a look round."

"Would 'ee care to come and see 'em cutting the hay in the Little Meadow? It wouldn't be far for 'ee to walk; we've got the new machine, and 'tis a real beauty. All the men are out there looking at un."

It did seem to Paul altogether too cruel that so many things he would have given anything to see and do should happen that afternoon, and that he should have to refuse them. "Oh, I—I—" and then he stopped. He could not go all out there with his boots under his arms, nor could he get rid of them while Farmer Minards stood looking at him; he had to keep up the pretence, too, about his foot. "I've strained my ankle, rather," he said lamely. "I'm afraid I could not walk so far. Mother has bandaged it, and I've only got my slippers on. I'm awfully sorry," he added with genuine regret.

"Never mind, sir, you can come another time. I'm sorry you're so bad, but when I saw you cutting along so spry I thought perhaps you was all right again; but we shall be using un again next week, and you can come then, perhaps," and Farmer Minards at last moved away, to Paul's intense relief, for he had been terrified all the time lest someone else should come along and catch him.

He ran on to the boot-house, but with little hope of finding Muggridge there now, for he would probably be out in the hay-field with the rest of the men. A thought had come to him, however, that he himself might manage to clean the mud off the boots, if he was quick. When he reached the boot-house it was as he feared, no Muggridge was there; but to his horror someone else was—no other than Mrs. Minards herself, and at sight of her Paul turned and fled in dismay. Too much scared to know what he was doing he ran swiftly through the yard, and into the kitchen-garden. At that moment a clock struck five and he knew that his mother would be expecting him down to tea now. What could he do? He could not get back to the house again; he peeped out and saw people moving about in the yard and at the doorway; it was impossible to get past unobserved. But those boots must be got rid of somehow. He looked about the garden eagerly for a spot in which to hide them, but a high stone wall surrounded the place, and the garden itself was so neat and tidy there was no chance of hiding anything there without the risk of being found out. And Mrs. Minards, he remembered, was always pottering about in her garden.

There was no time to spare either, and at the thought that in a moment his mother or some one would be searching for him, he fled out of the garden into the open country beyond. Outside the walls lay the moor, the big brown old moor. Surely here he could find a hiding-place for his unfortunate boots, and could tell Muggridge where to look for them. It was a splendid idea, he thought; there could not be a better hiding-place, and running as fast as his feet could carry him to a clump of furze, he pushed his boots far in under the bush, took one glance to see that all was safe, and fled back again to the garden-door.

"Paul, Pau—aul." He heard his own name being called, and ran on with a new fear in his heart. What would they think of him and his tale of his sprained foot if he reached them breathless and hot? So he slackened his pace, and when he came to the door leading from the garden into the yard he sauntered through in the most easy, casual manner he knew how to assume. When he came in sight of the house he saw his mother standing at the door. As soon as she saw him she beckoned him to hurry.

"Why, Paul dear, where have you been? Tea has been ready a long time, and I have searched for you all over the house. How hot and flushed and tired you look. Is your foot paining you? You should not have gone out, you know."

He was afraid to speak lest his breathlessness should betray him. "It is not so very bad now, thank you. I think it is getting better." He spoke so oddly and looked so unlike himself that his mother wondered what was the matter with him.

"Have you been out in the sun long?" she asked anxiously.

"No—o," he answered. "I've only been strolling about a little."

"It is hard to keep at home on such a lovely afternoon, but I think you would have done wisely to have rested," said Mrs. Anketell, sympathetically; and putting her arm about his shoulders they went to the orchard, where a glorious tea was spread for them. At any other time Paul's delight would have been boundless, but to-night he was so listless and distracted that Mrs. Anketell grew quite anxious about him, and his depression depressed her.

"Is there anything troubling you, dear?" she asked. "Can't you tell me what it is and trust me?"

There were tears in her eyes at the thought that her boy could keep aloof from her in his troubles. Her tender glance, her loving voice, touched Paul's heart. The whole confession trembled on his lips, and would have been poured forth, but at that moment the maid came up to say the clergyman had called, and Mrs. Anketell had to go away to see him, leaving Paul with his confession unmade.