The Bungalow Baby

by

Elsie Jeanette Oxenham

 THE BUNGALOW BABY

“MIRANDA’S compliments, and would you be so kind as to lend us a kettle?”

Nancy, sitting on the top step of the wooden flight leading up to the bungalow,
gazed down at the small girl who had come tramping across the shingle to make this
request. “I’m sure Barbara will. They’re her kettles; we’ve three. But you’ve been in
your bungalow for a week. How have you managed without a kettle?”
“Oh, we’ve got one! But it’s little. Mirandy wants a big one, for bronchitis.”
“Who’s got bronchitis?” Nancy stared down at the visitor, who was a year
younger than herself. Nancy was twelve, with blue eyes, brown face, and long yellow
plaits; this child had a shock of black bobbed hair and bright dark eyes, and wore a
gaily-patterned jumper over a short plaid skirt.
“Why do you want kettles for bronchitis?” Nancy added. “Oh, is the baby ill?
There’s only you and the lady and the baby!”
“To make steam. It’s easier for him to breathe. Mirandy says it will help. She’s my
sister. Robin’s ill; and you care a lot, when he’s all you’ve got left.”
“All - oh, of course! She’s a widow, isn’t she? I see what you mean. I’ll get the
kettle.” Nancy sounded disconnected, but the reasoning was clear to herself. “What’s
your name?” she asked, as she handed the big kettle down the steps.
“Sadie Sandell. Oh, Mirandy said, ‘Mrs. Sandell’s compliments,’ of course; I
forgot.”
“But” - Nancy began argumentatively, for she had a logical mind - “if she’s
married, and your sister, her name can’t be the same as yours?”
“Thanks awfully for this thing!” And Sadie nodded, and tramped off across the
shingle to the lonely bungalow.
Nancy sat on the top step of “Pro Tem.” and stared after her. “We said they were
mysterious!” she said, and went to meet Meg and the boys, who had been out
gathering drift-wood.
She and Meg and the boys, exiled from home on account of their small brother’s
scarlet fever, had spent a jolly Christmas with Barbara in her bungalow on the
shingle beach. Now the holidays were over, and next day the girls would go back to
school and the boys to college. Barbara’s elder sister had been away for Christmas,
so the girls had kept house together, with the two boys, Andrew and Billy, camping
out in an empty bungalow next door.
With the wood-gatherers came Captain Bob Nicholls, the old sailor who had built
the bungalows, and was at present sharing the smaller one with the boys, to the
delight of the whole party, who revelled in his tales, told at night around a fire of
flaming drift-wood.
“From the mysterious bungalow!” Meg cried, when she heard Nancy’s story. “Oh, I
am sorry about the baby!”
“We don’t know the people.” Nancy turned to Captain Bob. “And it does seem
queer for a lady and a girl and a baby to come just after Christmas, and live all alone
in a bungalow on the beach.”
“They’ve taken it for a month,” said Barbara. “It’s right away from all the other
huts, along by the lagoon; the last place you’d think a lady and a girl and a baby
would choose to go to in the middle of winter! No wonder the kid’s got bronchitis!”
“Is it ‘Bide-a-Wee’ you mean?” asked Captain Bob sharply.
“Yes. It’s got a big bank of shingle between it and the sea. It’s close to the
lagoon.”
Captain Bob nodded gloomily. “I saw folks were in it, but I never set eyes on any
of them. ’Twere built same time as I built these shanties, an’ I said from the first that
was no place for a bungalow.”
“But it’s nice and sheltered,” Meg urged. “They don’t get the wind off the sea, as
we do. ‘Pro Tem.’ was rocking about last night.”
“What’s wrong with ‘Bide-a-Wee’?” Barbara asked. “You don’t think it will slide
down into the lagoon some night, do you?”

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 THE BUNGALOW BABY
“No foundations,” said the Captain portentously. “Well, I don’t know; I didn’t build
her. But there’s sandhills all round, and shingle overlaying the sand; and what I says
is, if that bank back o’ the bungalow isn’t shingle far enough down - if it’s sand
under, and shingle piled on top, like the rest - it stands to reason some day in a big
sea the sand will get eaten away and the bank will come down, And then where will
the bungalow be?”
“At the mercy of the wind and waves and the wild south-west gale,” Andrew said
dramatically. “But I say, sir! It’s stood the gales for five winters!”
“And that’s a real surprise to me,” said Captain Bob, “But some day that bank will
go, mark my words. And then the bungalow won’t be there long.”
“The ocean will pour into the lagoon, I suppose,” Billy said reflectively. “Oh well, I
guess it won’t be this winter!”
The girls were discussing the problem of Sadie’s relation to the young widow lady,
whom they had seen once or twice with her baby boy. “She must have meant sister-
in-law,” said Barbara.
“Or else she married her cousin,” Meg added. “It is possible, Nan! What did Sadie
look like? People in the village call them the foreigners.”
“She talked like American,” said Nancy.
“American!” Captain Bob echoed the word in an unmistakable tone.
“Don’t you like Americans?” Barbara asked, “Oh, but you must, you know! All our
Camp Fire things are American. Americans have ripping ideas.”
“My son died in America, six months back,” said the Captain briefly.
“Oh – sorry! But that wasn’t America’s fault, was it?” Nancy murmured.
“I thought the Captain didn’t want to talk about his son,” Barbara said later, to
the other four. “He seemed to shut up, so I didn’t like to tease. He’s such an old dear!
You saw him go off along the shore by himself; to get over the thought of America,
apparently.”
“’Tisn’t that,” said Billy. “He’s got something on his mind. He’s always wandering
off towards the lagoon,”
“I’d noticed that,” Meg admitted. “It’s just the last three days; he’s always going
alone to the lagoon, whenever he can get away from us. You might say he was going
to visit the pretty widow girl and her baby, but he says he’s never seen them close
to.”
“If he’s got a secret, it’s a jolly one,” Nancy said loyally. It couldn’t be anything
else. He’s so awfully jolly himself.”
“He has got something on his mind, though,” Andrew said soberly. They were all
sitting on the balcony on the seaward side of the bungalow, looking out over the long
wet sands of low tide. “He told us the other night; told us not to talk about it, but
since he spoke about his son himself, I guess it’s all right. The old chap’s got a guilty
conscience, and it’s plaguing him.”
“I don’t believe it I” Nancy said hotly.
“A guilty - oh, Andy, what’s the matter?” Meg cried.
“His son was a sailor, too. A couple of years ago he wrote that he was going to
marry a girl, an American; that’s what put it into Captain Bob’s head today. The old
fellow didn’t like it; seems to have a prejudice against, foreigners when it comes to
marrying them, though they’re all right till you begin bringing them into the family.
That seems to be his attitude, and I guess his old lady’s was more so. The old chap
wrote a stiff letter to his son; he’s regretted it since, but wouldn’t say so. The son
wrote back saying he’d married the girl, but would never bring her home till his
parents asked him to, and were willing to welcome her; in a bit of a temper, I
suppose. Nobody wrote for a time after that; then, six months ago, the Captain got a
newspaper with the notice of his son’s death marked in it. And that’s all.”
“All!” Barbara echoed. “But that’s sad for him! Hasn’t the wife written?”
“Not a line. He can’t write to her because he has no address. I think he’d like to,
now. There’s nothing left to do. But his mind isn’t easy; it’s not only losing his son,

3
 THE BUNGALOW BABY
but the thought that they’d quarrelled, and that he’d behaved badly. For, of course,
he had.”
“But you can understand it. The wife ought to have written, or come to see him,”
Meg urged.
“It was horrid for him to know they’d got married as soon as they heard he didn’t
want them to. They might have waited, and tried to talk him round,” Nancy argued,
her loyalty to their old friend refusing to give him all the blame.
“Don’t talk about it to him,” Andy warned her. “And don’t babble about
Americans. It will only worry him.”
The Captain’s journeys to the lagoon were more frequent during the next few
days, and the curiosity of the Bungalow Five grew in consequence. They asked
questions, which he did not answer; advanced theories of murder, robbery, and
piracy, which failed to win any explanation. They did not follow him, because that
would not have been sporting. Moreover, they all, except Barbara, had now gone
back to work, and only returned to “Pro Tem.” at dusk. The boys cycled to college in
the cathedral city a few miles inland; Meg and Nancy rode to the little town two miles
along the coast.
“We can’t go running after the old chap,” Billy admitted, as they discussed
Captain Bob’s interest in the lagoon. “But seems to me, it would be only decent if we
all went along on Saturday to ask how the bronchitis kid’s getting on.”
“And we might find some explanation of Captain Bob’s secret. We will, Billy!” Meg
promised. “We’ll have another look at the idol of our hearts and the apple of our
eyes, too. I mean the punt, dafty!” as Billy regarded her anxiously.
“You can’t. It’s gone,” be informed her. “I was along there the last day of the hols,
and it’s disappeared.”
“Then we can’t gaze at it and dream it’s ours!” Meg wailed. “Barbara, the only
thing your bungalow needs is a punt on the lagoon!”
“I’ll see about it next summer,” Barbara promised. “January isn’t the best month
for punting.”
To Meg and Nancy and the boys the month made no difference, however. They
were craving to explore the big sheet of water, really an inland harbour, cut off from
the sea by the bank of shingle and sandhills which sheltered the bungalow “Bide-a-
Wee”; and an old punt lying close by had offered the most delightful way of doing it,
and had become the desire of their hearts. Its disappearance, just when they were
contemplating “borrowing” it for an unofficial trip, was a keen disappointment.
The bungalow, “Pro Tem.” stood far back from the sea, and well up on the shingle,
and was always a breezy spot; but it stood so high that, however wildly the sea
might rage, and however loud the noise of the breakers tearing down the shingle,
there was no fear of even the highest spring tide reaching the steps. One of these
gales came before the visit to inquire about the invalid baby could be paid; and the
girls left their cycles at school and staggered home against the wind, riding along the
coast being impossible. The boys pedalled with difficulty down the by-roads, but
gave it up when they reached the village; they left their cycles at the grocer’s, and
struggled down Sea Lane and across the shingle on foot.
Barbara was a good hostess, and had plenty of tea ready. The exhausted
travellers fell upon it, and felt better when they had fed and rested by the drift-wood
fire.
“It’s no joke to-night,” said Billy. “ And the tide’s only just turned. We’ll be
swamped when it’s high.”
“That’s about ten and it jolly well will be high. The wind’s rising every minute,”
Andrew remarked, and retired to the boys’ bungalow to attack his prep.
School work was not yet in full swing, however, and he put his books away after
an hour. “Coming out to see the tide, Bill? What a mighty row!” he exclaimed, as he
opened a seaward window an inch, and the full blast of the sou’-wester met their
ears, with the grinding roar of the backwash dragging down the shingle, and the
falling crash of the waves.
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 THE BUNGALOW BABY
“I’m game,” and Billy flung on his coat. “We won’t take the girls - what?”
“We’ll tell them,” Andrew said prudently. “They’ll raise such a shindy if we sneak
off alone. But I guess they’ll have had enough. Coming, sir?”
Captain Bob was pulling on his big sea boots. “Aye, aye, my lads. We’ll see if all’s
well with that bungalow. My mind’s not easy about her.”
“She’s lived through plenty of gales, sir,” Billy said, laughing. “Look at the storm
we had last week!”
“And if there’s sand under her, each one of them will weaken her, and one day
she’ll founder,” said the Captain doggedly.
“Oh, well, come and look at her. Then you’ll feel happier,” Andrew said. “But I say,
sir! I thought sand kept out the sea? Don’t they use it for dykes, in some places?”
“That’s true enough, where there’s hills of it, and miles of dunes behind, and all
held together with grass a-top. But sand and shingle mixed, like this here, will get
eaten away, I’m thinking, and we’ve had days on end of storm.”
“Right-oh! We’ll have a look and see if she’s still there.” And Andrew went across
to the girls’ house, amused at the old man’s persistence.
Meg and Nancy had finished their work, and had turned to the task that was
absorbing all their spare energy. Sitting cross-legged on the floor beside the drift-
wood fire, whose flames were blue and green and purple and gold and red, they were
working hard at the making of their Camp Fire gowns. The cut-out material had come
from New York a few days before, and neither girl could be happy till she had put
hers together, and had seen herself in it for the first time. Meg was stitching leather
fringe along the foot of her hem; Nancy, her lap heaped with tawny khaki cloth, was
sewing fringe to her under-arm seams before making up the sleeves.
Barbara’s gown was made already, and decorated with the green and brown
bulrushes from which she had taken her Indian name. She was wearing it as a
pattern for the younger girls, and, as Andrew looked in, she was standing reciting the
story of “Hiawatha’s Childhood,” which she was learning with a view to honours. Her
thick black plaits were drawn forward on to her breast, and a headband of glittering
beads stretched across her forehead. Meg and Nancy, with their yellow plaits
hanging on their shoulders, would make picturesque Camp Fire Girls, but would
never look as Indian as Barbara did.
Andrew pushed open the window. “We’re going for a sprint along the beach. Want
to come?”
“No, thanks!” Meg said emphatically. We know when we’re well off. Don’t get
blown over the South Downs!”
Nancy looked wistful. “I’d like to. I do love the wind. But I want to get these
sleeves done, Andy. I’d come like a shot, if I hadn’t started this.”
“I’m not exactly dressed for the beach. And I was along there this afternoon. I’ve
had enough, thanks!” said Barbara.
“Ta-ta, Andy! Take care of little Bill, and don’t get drowned, any of you,” Meg
dismissed them cheerfully.
Billy snorted indignantly as Andrew closed the window. “Meg’s got cheek enough
for six!”
“Oh, save your breath for the wind, man!” his elder brother laughed; and Billy
gloomily found it necessary as they left the shelter of the bungalows, and met the
full force of the gale.
Even the lagoon was stormy when they reached it, after a long struggle with the
wind. The shingle bank kept out the sea, but even here the waves were dashing on
the hillocks of sand and stones that bordered the harbour.
“The house is still standing, sir,” Billy cried reassuringly, as they caught a flicker
of light from the windows of “Bide-a-Wee.”
As he spoke, there came a crash louder than that of any wave; and then, as the
Captain gave a shout and the boys gazed doubtfully seaward, at their feet foamed
the water, the first triumphant wave which had broken through the wall.

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 THE BUNGALOW BABY
“The bank’s broke!” Captain Bob shouted in their ears, “Sea’s coming in, and
tide’s still got an hour to rise,”
“My hat! It will be pouring into the lagoon, and no mistake! Still, the house is all
right, sir!” cried Billy eagerly.
“But it’s cut off, and this is getting deeper every second,” Andrew added, as the
trickle at their feet became a stream and began to cut an ever-widening channel,
“Will the rest of the bank go too, sir?”
“Snakes! I never thought of that!” Billy said anxiously.
Captain Bob was plainly perturbed. “I’ll go and fetch them out. If they’d got men
to help them, I’d say wait awhile and see if the bank lasts out the tide. But a lady
and kiddies all alone! ’Tisn’t right or reason.”
“No, we couldn’t leave them. We’ll haul them out and take them back to “Pro
Tem.”, till we see what’s left of their house by midnight,” Andrew agreed.
They all plunged into the deepening channel and waded across to the shingle
bank. “We’ll have a job getting them over, if it gets much deeper,” Billy remarked,
thrilled by the possibility of danger.
“It’s running deeper every minute. There goes another chunk of the bank!”
Andrew cried. “I believe it’s all going to give way. There’s no time to lose, you
chaps!”
Now that a channel had been forced, the rest of the bank was crumbling and in
imminent danger of collapse. The boys and the Captain staggered along and at last
reached the small bungalow, whose tenants had no thought of impending disaster.
Light was streaming from an uncurtained window. Andrew and Billy, hunting for
the door, looked in, and drew back for an instant in utter amazement. For the scene
in this distant hut was almost exactly the one they had left in their own.
A slim, slight girl, not tall, though she was twenty-two, stood there in a yellow
gown with brown fringe, the very counter- part of the one Barbara wore. Her hair was
plaited in two black braids on her shoulders, and drawn forward to frame her face.
She wore chains of coloured beads of strange shapes hanging from her gown and
round her neck; across her forehead was a strip of bead-work, like Barbara’s; on the
little finger of her left hand was a silver ring, like those which had just come to “Pro
Tem.” from America.
She was repeating, with gestures, some verses or poem to the small girl who sat
at her feet, gazing up at her in rapt attention. She, too, wore a yellow gown, and a
glittering band of beads binding down her shock of black bobbed hair.
Could the girl who was speaking be the widow lady of the bungalow-the mother of
the baby Robin? There was no one else, so far as anybody knew.
But there was no time for wondering over this strange twin scene of Camp Fire.
The roar of the waves in the new-cut channel was swelling with every moment.
Captain Bob, fumbling for the door, was close behind the boys. “Gosh!” said he,
as a swift glance showed him the unconscious American girls. Then: “Got to get them
out. Where’s the lady? And where’s the door?”
“I expect that girl’s the lady. Here we are!” And Andrew beat a tattoo on the door
which could be heard even above the howling of the wind.
A shrill outcry of amazement from the small girl was followed, after a pause, by
the appearance at the door of the elder. In the moment’s interval, she had caught up
a handful of hairpins, and now her hair was coiled sedately over her ears and she
looked five years older. She had not had time to hide her Indian gown, however.
Looking startled, she faced the visitors with a touch of defiant questioning in her
manner.
Andrew wasted no time in apologies. “I’m awfully sorry, but the shingle bank has
given way, and the sea’s pouring into the lagoon. We don’t know how long this ridge
will stand. We’re afraid it and the house will go too. We’ll help you across to the
beach, and take you where you’ll be safe. There’s quite a big river to cross already,
and the bank’s coming down in chunks. I’m afraid there isn’t a minute to lose.”

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 THE BUNGALOW BABY
The girl, looking now as if she might possibly be the “widow-lady” after all, did not
lose her head. “How long can you give us? Sadie, get your coat and shoes; and bring
mine. We’ll be ready in a moment-it was good of you to come. My baby is sleeping in
the other room.”
She was back in five minutes, wearing a big coat and carrying a bundle wrapped
in blankets. Sadie, with big excited eyes, followed, carrying a handbag and a case
into which a few possessions had been hurriedly thrust.
Billy took the case, and guided her down the steps. Andrew helped the mother
and baby.
Captain Bob had disappeared, but now came to meet them out of the windy
darkness. “We’ll never get them through. It’s two feet deep, and raging like a torrent,
and yards wide and spreading every moment.”
“Are we on an island?” Sadie demanded, with eager eyes. But no one took any
notice of her; the seriousness of the position was plain enough to all the rest.
“What can we do, then, Captain?” Andrew asked anxiously, sure their old friend
had found a better plan. “We can’t go all the way round; it’s miles, and in this wind it
would take hours.”
“Nay, they couldn’t do it, girls and children.” Captain Bob could not think of the
girl he had seen as a married woman. “I’ve got a boat. We’ll pole ’em across to the
shore near the lane. This way, missy!” he added, to the elder girl.
She put her bundle into his arms. “Will you carry my little boy? My eyes aren’t
used to the dark, and I’m afraid of stumbling.”
Her voice was clear and soft, and the American accent not unpleasant. Captain
Bob held the baby tightly in his right arm, and guided her with his left. The boys and
Sadie followed, wondering how he had found the boat so conveniently.
Andrew flashed on the light of his torch as they reached the lagoon. The Captain
led them to a boat which lay moored among the rushes.
“Why, it’s the punt!” Billy cried excitedly. “The punt we’re so keen on! Is she
yours?” And he turned to the elder of the rescued girls.
“She’s mine,” said Captain Bob briefly. “I’ll tell you later, sonny. Step in, missy,
and take this little chap from me.” It was no time for questions. Bewildered, Andrew
and Billy had to restrain their excitement, and help the girls on board. The boat was
afloat; the water in the lagoon was already some inches higher than usual.
“There’ll be a flood before morning,” Billy suggested.
“No. The banks will hold it,” said the Captain, and took the pole and pushed off.
He began to work the laden punt slowly across to the opposite shore, going well out
to avoid the inrush from the sea.
Sadie was watching him. “I’ve seen you doing this,” she announced. “Today, and
yesterday. You went away up the harbour.”
“I was trying her,” Captain Bob explained. “She’d sprung a leak, sonny,” to eager
Billy. “I bought her from a man in the village, and I’ve been getting her shipshape,
and painting her up. I’m off to town on Monday; I’m going to leave this small craft
with you and the rest of your crew, to remember an old chap by. You’ve been mighty
good and friendly, and Bob Nicholls isn’t one to take all and give nought in return.”
“You old sport!” burst Joyfully from Billy.
“How ripping of you, sir!” Andrew cried heartily. “You are jolly decent! The girls
will say so too.”
“No, they’ll say he’s a perfect angel; a dear darling old thing,” Billy grinned. In
their excitement, they had not noticed a smothered exclamation from one of their
passengers. Sadie heard and looked at her sister, who shook her head quickly. “It’s
all right, Sadie. Yes, Robin’s all right, don’t worry!” And she sat with her eyes on
Captain Bob, though she could only see the outline of his figure as he poled the punt
along.
The punt grated gently on the shingle, and the Captain remarked, “’Tisn’t far to
‘Pro Tem.’ Shall I take the baby again, missy? I’ve a grandchild in the village yonder,
but her mother won’t often trust me to hold her. I’ve a soft place for the little ones.”
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 THE BUNGALOW BABY
Miranda handed him the bundle of blankets. “He’s very tiny, and he’s been ill, but
he’s better now. He’s the littlest baby I ever knew. His father never saw him. He died
six months ago, just a month before Robin came.”
“Eh, poor lassie! That was sad for you.” And Captain Bob held Robin tenderly and
gave Miranda his hand to help her up the shingle bank.
Andrew carried the case, and Billy took Sadie by the arm. The wind was behind
them now, but was so strong that they braced themselves against it and staggered
as they went.
Andrew led the way up the steps on the lee side of the bungalow, and threw open
the door. “Barbara! Meg! Nancy! Here are some shipwrecked mariners!” And then he
stood aside expectantly.
The girls had been in the inner room. They came running out, Barbara still in her
gown and headband, just as Captain Bob and Billy ushered their exhausted refugees
into the lounge hall.
Miranda and Sadie, hot and tired, had thrown open their coats, and their yellow
gowns were plainly to be seen. Andrew was not disappointed in the result he had
hoped for. One shout of amazement broke from all three, as Barbara stopped and
stared at her guests, and they gasped and stared at her. The cry was echoed in a
moment by Meg and Nancy in the background.
“Snap!” said Billy gleefully.
“Camp Fire! Oh, Camp Fire! It’s the American people!” Meg cried exultantly.
“Come in! Do come in!” Barbara said breathlessly. “Forgive me, but I thought I
must be crazy! What has happened? What can we do? Are you wet? You must be cold
-”
“We’re boiling,” said Sadie, and tossed off her coat. “But why have you got a
gown? Are you Camp Fire people - English? I never knew anything so funny!”
Captain Bob had laid his bundle in Miranda’s arms. She sat down, tired out, and
unwrapped the blankets, and then looked up at Barbara. “I never was so surprised in
my life! You must tell us why you have a gown. We never expected to meet Camp
Fire in England. I was a Guardian at home, and Sadie is just old enough to belong. We
brought our gowns, and sometimes we dress up at night, and sing the songs and say
the verses, to please her. To-night she was nervous of the storm, so I said we’d have
a meeting. Then your friends came and said the house wasn’t safe, and brought us
away. I’m sure they saved our lives.”
“The bank had broken, and the sea’s pouring into the lagoon,” Andrew explained.
Barbara was on her knees by the baby, with Meg and Nancy leaning over her
shoulders. “What a darling! Is he better? We were coming to inquire about him
tomorrow.”
“What can we do for him?” Nancy pleaded. “We’ll make a bed for him, and you
must tell us what he likes to eat,” at which the young mother laughed.
“Do we call you Mrs. Sandell?” Meg asked.
Miranda pushed back her dark hair and round fur cap, and looked up at them.
“Please, I’d like to start square. I’ll be honest, and you can turn us out, if you must. I
gave that name in the village, but it’s not mine now. It was my unmarried name;
Sandell is Sadie’s name. I’m” - she drew a quick breath, and looked straight at
Captain Bob. “I’m Miranda Nicholls. Your son married me in a hurry, and against your
wish, because my mother had died and I had nowhere to go. I wanted to take some
post, but he wouldn’t have it. We loved one another, so he wouldn’t wait, but
married me at once. When - when he went - I wanted to come to you; that was why I
didn’t write. I came as soon as we could do it safely. I came here to look for you, for
Bob had told me this was your home.
“I took that lonely bungalow, just for a month, thinking I’d make friends with you
before I told you who I was. Then I heard that you didn’t live here any longer; and
then, that you were coming for a visit. So I stayed on. Then Robin’s illness kept me in
the house; and I had no chance to meet you. But to-night you came, and I knew your

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 THE BUNGALOW BABY
face when I saw you in the boat, from photos Bob had given me. And I felt I must tell
you at once.”
Captain Bob, after one incredulous cry, had listened with bent head. Now he
looked up and spoke vehemently. “I was wrong, and I’ve been sorry, but I couldn’t do
a thing to find ye, lass. I’ve thought, and grieved, since I knew Bob was gone. Will ye
come home with me now, Mirandy? There’s Bob’s mother waiting for you and the
boy.”
Miranda, dashing aside her tears, held little Robin out to him again. “He’s yours,
as well as mine. And I’ll trust you with him whenever you want him.”
“Come and make beds, and get ready hot drinks, and stacks of supper!” Barbara
whispered, and drew the other girls and Sadie away to the kitchen.
The boys vanished, to reappear at the side door and tell the glorious news of the
punt, and the explanation of the Captain’s secret.
“Cheers! Oh, cheers! He is an old dear! And isn’t she a darling?” Meg cried
ecstatically. “Let’s give three cheers for the whole family, shall we?”