the saturday before the show at chilaton, which had dawned so promisingly, became overcast as the day wore on. in the afternoon mr. and mrs. burford went by train to a neighbouring town to spend a few hours with some friends, whilst tom betook himself to halcyon villa, where, to his disappointment, he found that peter had gone for a drive with his aunt, and that the time of their return was uncertain.
"never mind, tim," he said, as he and his little dog turned away from the front door, "we'll go for a tramp by ourselves—to bellman glen. i dare say it won't rain, although it looks so cloudy."
accordingly they started for bellman glen, a charming spot much patronised by picnickers; it was about three miles distant from chilaton. at dinner-time mr. burford had told tom that he did not wish him to loiter about in the market square, otherwise the boy would doubtless have whiled away the afternoon there.
both tom and tim enjoyed the walk, more especially the latter, who hunted the fields on either side of the road unreproved. their way took them through a village, where tom expended threepence, all the money in his possession, in the purchase of halfpenny buns which, on arriving at bellman glen, he shared with tim, who, from the time he had purchased them, had kept close to his side.
"there, you greedy little beast!" tom exclaimed laughingly, as he presented his companion with the last piece of the last bun, "that's all. you've had quite as much as i have, if not more."
satisfied now, tim stretched himself out on the smooth, velvety turf near the tree against the trunk of which tom was sitting, and promptly went to sleep.
"the little beggar's tired," tom said to himself; "well, we can rest a bit. it's awfully hot considering there's no sun. i think it must be thunder weather. i'm tired myself."
but he was a boy who never could be still very long, and, in less than ten minutes after the buns had been finished, he rose and set off with tim on the return journey. as they emerged from the glen into the road he noticed a wall of black clouds in the west; overhead the sky was a leaden grey.
"i doubt if we get back dry, tim," he remarked, "anyway we'd better hurry. i wonder what time it is. i'll ask at the village."
he did so, and found that it was nearly six o'clock, later than he had imagined. he was anxious to reach home before his parents, and was doubtful now whether he would; however, they would not worry about him, he reflected, but would imagine him at halcyon villa.
"we're going to have it now!" he exclaimed, as, half a mile beyond the village, he felt a drop of rain on his face, then another, and another. "i wonder if there's anywhere we could get shelter? i dare say it's only going to be a thunder shower. oh, i know! there's an old lime-kiln over there! come, tim!"
the boy and dog left the high road, and tore across a meadow at the far end of which, adjoining a wood, they found shelter in a disused, ivy-covered lime-kiln. the rain was falling fast now, and thunder was rumbling in the distance.
"this is a dismal hole sure enough," tom thought, "but it would be silly to get drenched if it's going to clear directly. why, there's some one else here! a little girl! oh, i do believe it's grace lee!"
yes, seated on the ground, her head resting-against the stone wall of the kiln, her eyes closed, her dark hair half hiding her face, was the little runaway show-girl. peering at her in the dim light, tom saw that she was fast asleep. whilst he hesitated to disturb her, tim, who had been standing at her side, wagging his tail, suddenly gave a spring into her lap, and she awoke with a start, and a cry which was almost a shriek. the next minute, however, her arms, were around tim, and she was hugging and kissing him.
"oh, you dear little dog!" she exclaimed; "i know you wouldn't hurt me, you darling, but, oh, you did frighten me! i thought—thought—" she broke off, shuddering, and looked up with a world of pathos in her dark eyes at tom. "oh, don't believe i'm so wicked as max sordello made out to you," she said pleadingly; "but i'm afraid you will, because i've run away."
"i don't believe you're wicked at all," tom declared stoutly, "nor does peter perry. we wish we could help you."
"how kind!" said the child. her eyes filled with tears, and her lips quivered. "i can't go back," she said. "i won't! i'd rather stay here and die! it would be better to die here than to be killed by hero."
"hero?" echoed tom. "oh, the lion! then you're afraid of him?"
"horribly, horribly afraid of him! i haven't minded so much going into the cages with the other lions—they're not forest-bred, and they're too afraid of max's whip to dare to touch me; but hero—oh, he's different! at first when they told me i was to perform with him i said, 'no, no, no!' but mrs. sordello said she'd half kill me if i wouldn't promise to do as max told me, and—"
"was that the meaning of the row i heard between you?" interrupted tom, excitedly. "oh," he cried, as the little girl nodded assent, "how, cruel, how cruel!"
"i had to give in," grace told him; "it wasn't any good saying 'no.' i have had two rehearsals with hero, and i was to have had another this morning, but directly after breakfast i slipped away out of the town; then i wandered about in the fields and woods till i was so tired i couldn't go farther, and i crept in here and lay down."
"how long have you been here, i wonder?"
"i don't know. i've been asleep. when your little dog woke me, i thought for a minute that hero had turned on me. you won't tell any one you've seen me here, will you? this is a fine hiding-place."
"but you can't stay here altogether, grace."
the child pushed her heavy hair back from her face, and sighed. "my head aches dreadfully," she said in a plaintive tone; "it's ached for days, and it makes me feel so stupid. no, i can't stay here altogether; if i did, max might find me. by and by i shall go on."
"but where are you going?"
"i don't know."
"and it's raining. listen! if you were out in weather like this, you'd be wet to the skin in a few minutes. good gracious!"
a vivid flash of forked lightning had lit up the kiln momentarily; it was followed immediately by a deafening peal of thunder, and the little girl cowered against the wall, hiding her eyes.
"i came here for shelter from the rain," tom explained; "but i didn't guess a storm was so near. it seems right overhead, doesn't it? don't be frightened, grace; i don't think we shall come to any harm here. look at tim! isn't he funny? he can never understand what thunder is."
grace uncovered her eyes and looked at the little dog, who had left her lap and was standing beside tom, his head cocked on one side, listening. at every flash of lightning he glanced up into his master's face, with a look which asked as plainly as words, "is it all right?" and when tom answered, "yes, it's all right, tim," appeared quite satisfied.
"how sharp he is!" the little girl said, smiling. "i don't suppose you'd part with him for anything, would you?"
"money wouldn't buy him," tom replied; "no, not any amount of money."
there was a long pause in the conversation after this, during which the lightning flashed and the thunder roared, and tom considered grace's situation very seriously. she seemed to have made no plans, and he saw that she was nearly done up. he wondered if the sordellos were searching for her; if so, there was every probability that they would find her, and his kind heart swelled with pity as he thought of her terror of hero and the heartlessness of those who, for the sake of gain, meant to make a public exhibition of her with the lion, against her will.
"what a miserable life you must have had travelling about with that menagerie!" he remarked by and by. "i saw mr. dumbell this morning, and spoke to him. i call him a very rough, ill-mannered man." and forthwith he gave her an account of the scene between mr. dumbell and tiny jim, to which she listened with a pained expression on her pale little countenance.
"oh, poor mr. rumbelow!" she sighed, when he had finished speaking. "he was anxious about me: that was why he was under the van, listening. both mr. and mrs. rumbelow have always been very, very kind to me, and now, perhaps, i shall never see them again."
"you don't think of going back, grace?"
"no, no, no! as soon as the rain stops i must go on."
"it is stopping. the storm is passing, but it will soon be night. the evenings are growing very short now."
"never mind. i'll walk on till i come to a village or town, and sleep on a doorstep. i'll be careful a policeman doesn't find me. in the morning i'll beg a little food. i must do without it till then. i was very hungry at dinner-time, but i found some blackberries and ate them, and—"
"haven't you had any proper food since breakfast?" tom interposed in a tone of dismay. "no? oh, this is dreadful—dreadful!"
the sympathy in his voice brought tears to grace's eyes again, and a sob of self-pity broke from her lips. "oh, why did father die and leave me?" she wailed. "oh, if only i'd some one to go to! perhaps, if i could find my uncle, he'd be kind to me."
"what uncle?" asked tom, sharply.
"father's brother. i've never seen him, but father used to speak of him sometimes. he was always hoping to run against him somewhere, but he never did."
"what is his name?"
"moses—moses lee."
"moses lee!" tom almost shouted the name in his delight. "why, grace, i can take you to him," he said. "that is, i can take you to his caravan, and his wife will look after you."
"you know my uncle moses?" questioned grace, wonderingly.
"yes! and he's a jolly, kind fellow. he has a wife and a little daughter—younger than you—called zingra. they've a beautiful yellow and red caravan, and it's at hatwell green now. come, i'll take you to mrs. lee. she'll look after you, and when she hears about hero, i know that, whatever happens, she won't let the sordellos get hold of you again."
"where is hatwell green?" grace asked, rising with some difficulty, for her limbs were stiff and aching. an eager light was shining in her dark eyes.
"about a mile from here. oh, good! the rain's stopped altogether. we have to cross the field to reach the road."
this they did, getting themselves wet nearly to the knees, for the meadow had become a swamp with the heavy rain, and the grass was very long. grace was shivering and complaining of being cold before they had gone far on the road.
"is it much farther?" she asked, when they had walked about half a mile.
"a good bit farther," tom was obliged to admit.
"then i'm afraid it's no good: i can't get there," the little girl said in a tone of despair. "you'd better go home and leave me."
"not likely! to be found by the sordellos! here, take hold of my hand. you nearly fell then."
grace obeyed, and for a few minutes the pair walked on in silence. but the little girl's footsteps lagged, and by and by, with a burst of tears, she came to a full stop.
"i can't—i can't go on!" she sobbed, and dropping tom's hand, she sank down on the muddy road. "i feel so funny, so—" her voice trailed off indistinctly.
"oh, dear me whatever can i do?" exclaimed tom, in dire dismay. "i don't like to leave you, but i suppose i must. i'd better hurry on to hatwell green and fetch mrs. lee. do you hear, grace? why don't you speak?"
grace did not answer, for the simple reason that she had fainted from exhaustion. she lay, a miserable little heap of humanity, right in the middle of the road, and tom was at his wits' end how to act. to add to the difficulties of his position, it had commenced to rain again.
"i can't let her lie here," he reflected. "i wonder if she's very heavy."
he tried to lift her, but, failing in the attempt, dragged her into the hedgerow where the hedge would shelter her a little from the rain. having done that, he was about to start running for hatwell green, when the sound of a horse galloping along the road fell on his ears, and he waited. nearer and nearer came the horse, urged on by a voice which struck familiarly on the listener's ears.
"it's moses lee!" tom exclaimed joyfully. "hi, stop!" he shouted; "stop!"
