AWAKENING
In after days, Nancy found that her sub-conscious self (she did not,
of course, call it that) had stored up impressions of the spacious
view. Grey, ineffaceable impressions that seemed a fitting prelude
to tragedy. Nevertheless, her conscious self was still occupied with
the strange couple they had left behind on the common; for people,
especially if they were somewhat out of the ordinary, never failed to
rouse her interest.
"There's so much to wonder about them," she would say.
And she was wondering a great deal about those two when presently
Dick came up with them. Nancy noticed immediately that he was
troubled about something.
"It's that car," he explained, in answer to her enquiry. "The bally
thing ought to be on the scrap-heap, but the old lady won't part with
it, as you know."
Then he went on to explain the obsolete mechanism of the thing, and
how he had promised to run into Gleambridge to see if it was possible
to get some new parts that would fix them up for a time. Of his very
interesting interview with the old lady, of her pointed remarks about
the condition of his roads--if he was in truth Warden of the
Hills--of her enjoyment of his discomfiture, and her demands that he
should get them out of their predicament he said nothing.
Demands apart, however, he could not, in common humanity, leave her
and her companion stranded. He knew that he must go to Gleambridge,
yet what was to be done about the children? He did not at all care
about leaving them for so long--besides, he was anxious to see them
settled at Omberley before the rain came; it could not hold off much
longer, he was sure. If only he could have persuaded them all to
accompany him to Gleambridge--but then, of course, there was
Modestine. No, he must think of some other plan.
He talked the matter over with the children and finally Billy made a
suggestion. If Mr. Frampton would take the girls in the car as far
as Omberley he could show them where to stay for the night. They
could then meet the boys at the entrance to the village and take them
to the rooms where they would await tea for him.
"That's an excellent idea," said Dick. "If I can't get that derelict
fixed up by six o'clock it will have to be abandoned." He helped
Nancy and Mavis into the car. "Better tumble the blankets in, too,
Billy, in case the rain comes before you reach Omberley."
It seemed to Nancy as they sped over the wide, sweeping common that
they were on the very top of the world.
"Are there _really_ places higher than this?" she gasped, for the
clean, cold air took her breath away.
"Much, much higher!" Dick replied, with an amused laugh. "Are you
enjoying it?"
"Oh, it's 'toxicating!" she laughed, "isn't it, Mavis? It makes one
feel 'spasmy.'"
"What a wild little creature she is," thought Dick, glancing down at
the excited little face. He was glad that the forest and river that
he loved so dearly had had a hand in the making of Nancy.
Quite suddenly the road swung round to the left and they came upon
Omberley snuggling against the hillside. Nancy, of course, did some
"sky-climbing" when she saw it. "Sky-climbing," Mavis explained to
Dick, was a family word for Nancy's enthusiasms.
"Well, I can't help it," Nancy replied, "if he brings me suddenly
from the top of the world to a lovely baby village nestling in its
mother's arms. 'Sides, he says lots of artists come to paint
it--p'raps you will when you're bigger!" for already little Mavis was
showing promise of being an artist.
Dick stopped the car at a pretty little house half-way down the
village. He left the children outside while he went in to make
arrangements; these, apparently, did not take long, for he soon
returned followed by a pleasant-faced woman.
"Mrs. Halliday has come to take the blankets in and to be introduced
to you," he explained. "She's going to get us a splendid tea, and
you are all to come here as soon as you like. The sooner the
better," he added. "You'd get drenched up on that common in the
rain. You'll be happy and comfortable here; won't they, Mrs.
Halliday?"
Mrs. Halliday replied that it would not be her fault if they were
not, and, after a few final directions, they bade her good-bye "for a
little while." At the top of the village Dick pointed out an hotel
where they could leave Modestine and then, very reluctantly, set out
for Gleambridge.
Nancy and Mavis sauntered slowly back across the common. As yet
there was no sign of the boys, so, keeping one eye on the road, they
explored some of the many fascinating little paths amongst the
bushes. It was a wonderful common, quite different from anything
they had ever seen before and seemed to offer endless possibilities.
The "make-believe" games that might be played there! After tea, if
it was fine, they simply _must_ come here to play. So interested
were they both that they almost forgot to keep an eye on the road,
and it was not until they heard a frantic shout of recognition that
they realized how far they had strayed.
They flew back across the common, but, before they could reach the
boys, large drops of rain began to fall. Billy, seeing some
possibility of shelter behind the bushes, urged Modestine across the
grass to join them.
"We'd better wait a little while," he shouted to the girls. "Daddy
Petherham," he added, turning to Montague, "would say it's only going
to be a shower if he saw that sky. But he'd say there's lots more
coming presently--worse luck!"
The girls were waiting for them by a large hawthorn bush, and they
all huddled together, with Modestine, who hated getting wet, in their
midst.
"Jolly good thing we've arranged to sleep indoors to-night," Billy
said, as he watched the driving rain. "Did Mr. Frampton manage to
fix things up?"
"Yes, indeed, and at the dinkiest little cottage, too, and you'll
simply _love_ Omberley!" Nancy replied, enthusiastically.
"_And_ this common!" Mavis added eagerly. "We just had to explore a
little. I _wish_ you'd both been here!"
Presently, the rain ceased and, for the first time during the
afternoon, the sun shone brilliantly.
"It's going to be fine for a little while anyway!" they cried
hopefully, but they had spent too many hours in wise old Daddy
Petherham's company to mistake that brilliance. The boys, however,
had been looking about them while they were sheltering and they too
found delightful possibilities tucked away behind those alluring
common paths.
"There'd be time just to go down there," Billy said eagerly, pointing
to a path that led towards what seemed to be a kind of fort.
"Mr. Frampton said not to hang about too long," Nancy replied
doubtfully. "I b'lieve he worries rather about us, you know."
"Well, we won't stay long, but it's not nearly six yet, and 'sides
we'd be miserable stuffed up in a cottage for hours. Just down this
_one_ path, then we'll go straight to the cottage."
There seemed no immediate prospect of another shower, so Nancy gave
in, and four eager children and one somewhat reluctant donkey set out
on a voyage of discovery across the common. The fort was further off
than they had imagined, but nobody thought of turning back for they
did not come upon anything so interesting every day!
A real fort! How did it get there? Was it ever used? They could
see no sign of soldiers, nor even a sentry. A fort with no
defenders, with no enemy to storm it? Oh, impossible!
"Just _one_ little game!" Billy cried eagerly. "Modestine can graze;
there's lots of cows and horses over there so she'll be quite happy."
"Well, just five minutes!" Nancy conceded.
Five minutes when you have to defend your country with your very life
against a persistent enemy? Who could think of paltry minutes, who
could have eyes for gathering storm-clouds when all your resources
are being called upon to defend your hearth and home from a merciless
enemy?
And so half an hour or more slipped away, and a grey mist crept up
and shut out the Gleambridge valley and the distant hills. Great,
piled-up storm-clouds rolled nearer and nearer, but it was not until
a terrific clap of thunder, that might almost have been the booming
of one of their own imaginary guns, brought them back to earth with a
start that they realized what was happening.
"Oh!" cried Nancy in dismay, "what _will_ Mr. Frampton say? We ought
to have gone long ago."
"Yes," Billy replied guiltily. "Here comes the rain! It's no use
sheltering; it's going to be a terrific thunder-storm. We'd better
fly."
They looked round for Modestine, but she was nowhere in sight.
Horses and cows were huddled together under a high wall beyond the
fort, but Modestine was not amongst them. Now what was to be done?
They could not possibly leave the poor little animal out in the
storm; they would have to stay and find her.
"Oh, I hope we find her quick," Mavis said, in a frightened little
voice. "I hate this horrid thunder and lightning."
Nancy could tell by the way she clung to her hand that she was
thoroughly frightened, and was not surprised, for she herself felt
suddenly small and helpless up here on the top of the world exposed
to all the fury of the storm.
"Monty," she said, "you and Mavis run on to Jessamine Cottage and
Billy and I'll look for Modestine. Tell Mrs. Halliday we won't be
long, Mavis."
For a moment Mavis clung to Nancy as though unwilling to leave her.
"It's all right, Mavis," Montague said soothingly, "I'll take care of
you, dear."
He took her hand firmly in his, and, for once, Mavis did not trouble
to see whether it was clean or not.
"Don't be long, will you?" she pleaded, as Nancy turned away to join
Billy in his search.
"No, I s'pect she's just behind some of the bushes. Take care of
her, Monty," and, feeling that the proudest moment in his life had
arrived, Montague ran with his little charge in the direction of
Omberley.
Nancy joined Billy in his search. The rain was coming down with such
force and the wind was beating so pitilessly across the open common
that they found it difficult to hold up against it. Neither of them
would own that they were scared when the lightning zigzagged about
them, but each wished devoutly that Modestine would appear soon.
Suddenly, through the fury of the storm they heard a welcome,
familiar sound--the sound of a most pathetic braying. They lifted up
their heads and listened.
"Why, she's just over there!" Billy cried. "I can just see her
sticking out of that kind of shelter arrangement. I'll ran on and
fetch her; don't bother to come all the way."
Feeling very much relieved, Billy ran towards Modestine. He ran with
eyes half-closed and head lowered to avoid the blinding rain, and
thus it was that he did not see a forlorn, draggled-looking cow
drawing near to the shelter.
"Ladybird! Modestine! Come on, old girl, we're waiting for you, and
we're drenched through. Hurry!"
Modestine, hearing her little master's voice, looked up, but instead
of seeing his familiar face she encountered that of the cow. Now,
whether it was the storm that scared her or the harmless face of the
cow Billy could never say; all that he knew at the time was that
Modestine flew past him in terror. After that he knew very little,
for suddenly all was confusion.
Nancy could never be sure, either, exactly how the accident occurred.
She was not near enough to see more than a jumble of Billy, cow, and
donkey; then, the mad rush of Modestine, and her brother lying very
still just outside the shelter.
She flew, terrified, towards him, and, flinging herself on the wet
grass at his side, leaned over him. Whenever action was demanded of
her, Nancy's imagination was always thrust into the background, and
so, though Billy's face was deathly white, she did not pause to
indulge in the Biggest Fear of All. She unfastened his collar and
tie and then raised his head gently on to her knee. What else could
she do? There was no need for water, for the rain was beating down
on the boy's upturned face. Was there nothing to be done? Had she
just to sit here patiently waiting for life to return. Oh, it was
unbearable! Why did she not know what to do? If only she had not
sent the other two on, she thought regretfully, Monty could have run
to the village for help. She looked about her, but the common, as
much of it as was in sight, was deserted. Back on the road she could
hear the sound of a car, but it would be gone before she could get
near enough to wave to the occupants. It was not Mr. Frampton's car
she knew, for it was coming from the wrong direction. If only he
would come along--ah, what a relief that would be.
Nobody came, however, and she remained sitting there in the rain
watching Billy's face with anxious, passionate love in her eyes.
At length, after what seemed an eternity to Nancy, Billy opened his
eyes and looked about him vaguely.
"I think I've hurt my head a bit," he said, "it feels rather rotten.
Why, you're sitting on the wet grass, Nancy! I'll get up."
He tried to rise, but fell back with a sharp cry of pain.
"It's my leg," he groaned. "Is it broken, Nancy?"
"I don't know, Billy dear--I couldn't see what happened. Shall I
look and see?"
Billy shook his head.
"I--I couldn't bear to have it touched," he whispered, for he was
almost too exhausted with the pain to speak. He closed his eyes.
Apparently he had forgotten that Nancy was still sitting on the damp
grass, for he rested his head on her lap and held her hand tight.
Nancy looked down at him in despair. It was awful to see him
suffering so horribly and not be able to relieve him. She dared not
even suggest lifting him into the cattle-shelter out of the rain for
fear she might further injure his leg.
"If someone doesn't come along soon I shall have to leave him and run
for help," she thought.
The thunder still rolled amongst the surrounding hills, but only
distantly now; she was glad of this, for the horrid thunder seemed to
add terror to the accident.
"Nancy!" Billy spoke feebly, and Nancy leaned down to catch his
words. "How shall we tell Mother? She'll be awfully worried about
it."
Now, there was an unwritten law amongst the three children that their
mother must be saved as far as possible from all trouble. Their
quarrels were suspended at the first whisper of "Mother's coming!"
because it hurt them to see a certain sad, grieved expression that
was always on Mother's face if she caught them at it unawares. They
wanted to ward off all sorrow, all grief; they hated it to come
anywhere near that beloved mother; they hated anyone who caused her
suffering. Dick, realizing from their conversation something of this
protective love of theirs, had, as before mentioned, dreaded the
awakening for them when they should realize the anxiety she had
suffered after their disappearance. _That_ anxiety they could never
wholly realize; they had left a letter of explanation, so why should
anyone worry? Were they not used to wandering about the forest with
Modestine? Only in the daytime, of course; but still everybody knew
they were not helpless babies who could not be trusted.
Nevertheless, because of that unwritten law, both Billy and Nancy
were beginning to realize that they ought never to have come.
"It was all my fault," Billy whispered. "I'll tell her it was me,
Nancy."
"You won't!" Nancy replied passionately. "I'm older, an' I ought to
have thought more, and not just gone on dreaming stupid dreams about
hills that aren't a bit nicer'n our forest. I ought to have known
we're too young to go off like this. When you're older you know what
to do with accidents, an' all _I_ can do is to sit here and wait for
a grown-up!" Nancy leaned down and pressed her lips to Billy's hot
forehead. "I _wish_ it had been me," she added.
Billy half opened his eyes.
"No, it's right for it to be me," he persisted, "it was my fault,
Nan." He was silent for a moment. "Tell Mr. Frampton
_everything_--from the beginning. And--and--oh, I wish he'd come!"
He turned his head away, and if there were tears in his eyes Nancy
was not allowed to see them. She knew that they were there, however,
and felt desperately that something must be done. She thought of the
Prior's telegram, but could one send telegrams from so small a
village as Omberley? She feared not. Well, if she did not meet Mr.
Frampton she must get help from the village and send Monty back along
the road to fetch the girl who belonged to the derelict car. If she
had been a nurse in the war she would surely know what to do for a
broken leg.
"Shall you mind being left just for a little while?" she asked Billy
gently.
He shook his head.
"No. But you'll come straight back yourself, won't you? I--I want
you, Nan."
Nancy tenderly re-assured him. Then she rose, and, making a pillow
of her raincoat (fortunately Dick had insisted on both the girls
keeping their raincoats with them), she slipped it under Billy's
head. She was just about to turn away when she caught sight of
Modestine coming towards them.
"Oh!" she cried, with relief, "here's Modestine, Billy. She'll take
care of you while I'm away. She'd be sorry if she understood,
wouldn't she?"
"Yes--it wasn't her fault really. I'm glad she's come." For neither
of them could feel the slightest resentment towards the little
animal, who was indirectly responsible for the accident, knowing that
the blame rested primarily with themselves.
The rain had now stopped. Nancy felt glad of this as she flew across
the common for there had seemed something so relentless in the steady
downpour with Billy lying there entirely at its mercy. She looked to
right and left when she reached the road, but not a soul was in sight.
"I'll have to go to that hotel," she thought. "It's the nearest
place."
She turned into the village street, and to her surprise and joy what
should she see standing outside the hotel but the derelict car! Ah,
_now_ she could get help! Utterly regardless of her dishevelled
appearance, she ran up the steps and burst into the lounge. It was
full of people, but that did not trouble Nancy, for the person she
wanted was there--that was all that mattered. She brushed past
several astonished tea drinkers and ran straight to the erratic old
lady and her companion.
"Oh," she cried breathlessly, "please will you come at once? Billy's
broken his leg and Mr. Frampton isn't back from Gleambridge yet, and
he's out on the common with only Modestine. Could you _hurry_,
please, and bring someone to help carry him? It hurts him terribly,
an' so does his head."
The girl rose instantly and glanced at the old lady.
"Everything that's necessary," the latter replied tersely, in answer
to an enquiry in the girl's eyes. "And no expense to be spared.
She'll be ready--with somebody else's car--in about three minutes,
child," she added, turning to Nancy, for the girl had already
disappeared.
Nancy looked up at her and quite suddenly a special instinct she had
for seeing _behind_ people told her that the old lady was to be
trusted.
"Billy wants me to go back at once with them," she said hurriedly,
"and Mavis and Monty are at a place called Jessamine Cottage, and
don't know anything about the accident----"
"No need to worry about them--I'll go immediately. And you can trust
Miss Hammond, child--keep her as long as you need her. She managed
to get the car here and here it and I can stay. Here she comes!
Now, off you go!"
Nancy's eyes brimmed with gratitude as she followed Miss Hammond and
two strangers towards a car that was awaiting them. Now, just as she
was about to step into it Dick came dashing along the common road,
and glancing down the street saw and recognized her. He drew up
instantly and shouted to her.
"Oh," she cried, her voice trembling with relief, "there's Mr.
Frampton! Please, he'll take me to Billy. But you'll come too,
won't you?" she asked, turning to Miss Hammond.
"We'll all come," one of the men said kindly. "Your friend may need
us to help carry the little chap."
Dick held Nancy close while Miss Hammond briefly made the necessary
explanations and she nestled to him, knowing that their dear, big
comrade would take over all responsibility now.
"We'll never, never go away by ourselves again," she thought. "It's
an awful, awful world when you've got to try and manage and no
grown-ups to help you to think what to do. Everything'll be better
now Mr. Frampton's come. How glad Billy will be."
* * * * *
Three days later Nancy was sitting on the stone seat in the Sunk
Garden of the Priory, awaiting the Prior. Billy was settled for the
night in the charge of the new nurse who had come to relieve Miss
Hammond in order that she might return to her duties as companion,
and Mother was resting.
The swallows swooped and circled around her, but this evening she had
no thoughts to spare for them. There was so much to think about;
things to puzzle out--big, important things.
Nothing could ever efface the sadness behind Mother's forgiveness;
the half-hour with her when she had sobbed out her contrition was one
Nancy could never forget; Mother's few, gently-spoken words had
opened up a new world of responsibility to her. And then the memory
of Billy's face when they had lifted him into the car; the memory,
too, of his suffering during the ride to the Priory (Dick had taken
them there not only because it was so much nearer than Nestcombe, but
because he knew that his uncle would feel his responsibility in the
matter and would wish to bear, as far as possible, both the trouble
and expense), and the awful thought of four long months of
imprisonment for out-of-doors Billy; all these things forced
themselves upon Nancy and overwhelmed her with bitter regret.
"An' 'tisn't as if he could let off steam and do some grumblings
sometimes," she thought miserably. "He'll feel he's got to try to
keep them in as well as the pain, when Mother's there specially, 'cos
it's all our fault."
And yet, bitterly as she regretted ever having listened to the voice
of the hills, she could not help but wonder whether that adventure of
theirs was wholly wrong. For instance, there was Nonie. She must
surely have been drowned if Billy had not been there to save her.
And then again, there were Monty and Jocelyne, and Aunt Letty and
Uncle Jim. Surely the adventuring was going to be responsible for a
good deal of happiness where those four were concerned! Nancy,
clasping her hands round her knees, smiled a little tearfully as she
recalled the scene that had taken place under the Prior's beeches the
day after the accident.
First, there had been Jocelyne, a beautiful, eager, impulsive
Jocelyne running across the lawn with outstretched arms to Monty.
"Oh, Monty," she had cried, "I thought I didn't love you because
you're so naughty and troublesome, but I find I do! I've missed you
awfully, and it's been hateful living with aunt without you."
Montague stared at her in surprise.
"I haven't missed you," he replied slowly. "I've been happy."
"But won't you be friends now?" Jocelyne pleaded, all her pride
humbled for, perhaps, the first time in her life. "I'll be good to
you, Monty."
Montague hesitated and it was Mavis who decided the matter.
"She's nice, Monty, I like her. Be quick and make it up with her,
then we can all be friends together."
What could Montague do but obey his kind little tyrant? And then,
while the four of them were talking together, three of them at least
wishing that Billy had been there with them, across the lawn with the
Prior and Aunt Letty had come no less a person than "nearly-Uncle
Jim."
"That's my guardian," Montague growled; "s'pose he's come to fetch
me, but I'm not going back to Aunt's."
"Your guardian!" they echoed. "But it's someone who nearly married
Aunt Letty!"
"Oh!" cried Nancy, her ready imagination grasping the situation,
"that's why the Nestley side of Riversham hurt him! I _said_ it
wasn't just an ordinary ache!"
But Mavis, too, had grasped the situation, and while they were
talking and wondering she had run towards Aunt Letty and thrown her
arms around her.
"Aunt Letty, dear, please won't you hurry up and be friends with
Uncle Jim again and marry him? You see, I promised Monty he should
have you to be his mother 'cos he hasn't got one. He hates aunts,
but if he forgets you're one he thinks he could love you and, oh, he
does need someone to keep him clean and love him. But he can't be
your little boy, can he, if you hate his guardian?"
"I don't hate him!" Aunt Letty replied hastily, and Nancy, who had
drawn near with Jocelyne and Monty, thought how pretty her eyes
looked as she spoke.
"Then you'll marry him quick and be Monty's mother-guardian?" Mavis
cried, clasping her hands eagerly.
"And mine!" Jocelyne broke in impulsively.
"The guardian-angel of us all," said Uncle Jim, and Nancy knew by the
happy assurance in his voice that he and Aunt Letty must have made up
their quarrel before joining them on the lawn.
"'Spect the Prior made them," she thought, looking up affectionately
at the latter's twinkling face.
"But what does Monty say?" asked Aunt Letty, kneeling down by the boy
and taking his hands in hers. "There won't be much 'angel' about it,
I'm afraid. Just pals, you know, who love and trust each other.
Will you risk it, Monty dear?"
Montague stared silently at the young, kind face before him. Was
this an aunt? Why, she seemed friendly--just like Mr. Frampton.
"I didn't know aunts was like you," he said simply. Aunt Letty
smiled and waited questioningly. Then, perceiving that she was not
fully satisfied, Montague leaned forward and, for the first time
since his mother's death, voluntarily kissed a "grown-up." "It isn't
going to be any risk--not for _me_," he replied. "Nor for you
either--you'll see!" he added, and though his voice rumbled
volcanically, it was because of the strange new fire of happiness
that was burning within him.
And so, as she recalled that scene, Nancy could not but feel happy
that some good at least had come out of their thoughtless adventure.
And there was the Prior, too--how glad he seemed of their love, yes,
and even Uncle Val would be glad that they were fond of Lionel's
father. Oh, that hill country that had seemed so remote, those hill
people who had seemed almost foreigners, how near they were, how
closely linked, after all, with the forest and forest people.
Well, the adventure, if adventure it might be called, was over,
unless staying on at the Priory with Mother and Billy could be called
a continuation of it. For Mavis and Monty, at least, it was
finished, Nancy thought, for they had gone home with Aunt Letty
yesterday. Modestine, too, was probably cropping grass
unadventurously in the home paddock, for she had been sent back in
the charge of one of the monks. Nancy smiled as she recalled the
Prior's confession of his "make-believe" monks. It was dear of him,
she thought, to have entered into the spirit of their adventure as he
had done; she loved him for it. Well, the monks were just ordinary
gardeners and butlers after all, but the Prior himself would never be
anything but "Prior dear" to them.
Above the Priory wall the evening sunlight was bathing the distant
hills. Nancy watched it, the imagination part of her drinking it in
rapturously. Somewhere tucked away in the heart of those sun-kissed
hills were Nonie and her mother. Strange, she thought, how all the
very nicest happenings had been connected with people. Grown-ups, of
course, would think "adventure" too big a word to be applied to those
happenings. At the time, she herself and Billy had doubted whether
they might be called such, but, now, in looking back, Nancy was not
so sure. The encounter with Dick (they were all to call him that
now), the finding of Monty, the rescuing of Nonie, the Prior's
courteous reception of them, and the thrill of finding that he was
Lionel's father, above all the reconciliation of Aunt Letty and Uncle
Jim, surely there was adventure in all these happenings!
"Oh, if only it needn't have turned out so cruelly for Billy," Nancy
thought. "Well, we've promised Mother to settle down to everyday
life until we're grown-up, so there won't be any more adventure now
for years and years."
Footsteps aroused her from her reverie, and, looking up, she saw the
Prior coming towards her. She ran to meet him eagerly, and together
they paced up and down the old Sunk Garden.
"Making poems, little girl?" asked the Prior.
"No," Nancy replied, "I've just been thinking."
"Important thoughts?"
"Well, I don't know," she replied slowly. "It's only that we've
promised to settle down quietly till we're grown-up and it seems such
a long time to wait for any more adventure. It's Billy who will mind
most, I'm afraid. You see, he must do things, but we never, never
will go away again however tired we get of playing in the garden.
'Sides----"
The Prior looked down at her questioningly.
"Yes?"
"Oh, only that the garden and the river and the forest, I b'lieve,
are the nicest places in the world, after all. If--if only something
would _happen_ there--if only one didn't just meet people in an
ordinary, everyday way, if only adventure could be at home 'stead of
you having to go and find it!"
"But you don't!" the Prior re-assured her. "If you want adventure it
will come to you whether you go out to meet it or stay at home. Take
my advice, little girl. Let adventure seek _you_--it's waiting for
you round every corner. You've only to beckon, and it will come
dancing towards you."
"Really and truly?" Nancy asked breathlessly. "But how? I don't
quite see _how_!"
"You will some day. Did Dick or I or Monty or Nonie and her mother
or your Rose-Vicar seek you little people? And yet you have been
adventure, the Biggest Adventure of All for every one of us."
"_We_ have been adventure for _you_?" Nancy repeated slowly. "Why, I
never thought of that, and I'm sure Billy didn't."
She looked up into the Prior's face incredulously. How could three
children bring adventure to grown-up people? Surely he was mistaken?
Surely the Rose-Vicar, at least, would not agree with him? The
Biggest Adventure of All!
"What _is_ the Biggest Adventure of All?" she asked, as they climbed
the steps to return to the house. The Prior smiled inscrutably.
"Ah, _that_ you must find out for yourselves," he replied. "You will
know some day."
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