The old keeper had not given tongue on conjecture, like some youthful hound. In a little hollow of leaves, which the boy had scraped out, lay Master Compton and Miss Ruperta, on their little backs, each with an arm round the other's neck, enjoying the sweet sound sleep of infancy, which neither the horror of their situation--babes in the wood--nor the shouts of fifty people had in the smallest degree disturbed; to be sure, they had undergone great fatigue. Young master wore a coronet of bluebells on his golden bead, young miss a wreath of cowslips on her ebon locks. The pair were flowers, cherubs, children--everything that stands for young, tender, and lovely. The honest villagers gaped, and roared in chorus, and held high their torches, and gazed with reverential delight. Not for them was it to finger the little gentlefolks, but only to devour them with admiring eyes. Indeed, the picture was carried home to many a humble hearth, and is spoken of to this day in Huntercombe village. But the pale and anxious fathers were in no state to see pictures--they only saw their children Sir Charles and Richard Bassett came round with the general rush, saw, and dashed into the pit. Strange to say, neither knew the other was there. Each seized his child, and tore it away from the contact of the other child, as if from a viper; in which natural but harsh act they saw each other for the first time, and their eyes gleamed in a moment with hate and defiance over their loving children. Here was a picture of a different kind, and if the melancholy Jaques, or any other gentleman with a foible for thinking in a wood; had been there, methinks he had moralized very prettily on the hideousness of hate and the beauty of the sentiment it had interrupted so fiercely. But it escaped this sort of comment for about eight years. Well, all this woke the bairns; the lights dazzled them, the people scared them. Each hid a little face on the paternal shoulder. The fathers, like wild beasts, each carrying off a lamb, withdrew, glaring at each other; but the very next moment the stronger and better sentiment prevailed, and they kissed and blessed their restored treasures, and forgot their enemies for a time. Sir Charles's party followed him, and supped at Huntercombe, every man Jack of them. Reginald, who had delivered a terrific cat-call, now ran off to Lady Bassett. There she was, still on her knees. “Found! found!” he shouted. She clasped him in her arms and wept for joy. “My eyes!” said he, “what a one you are to cry! You come home; you'll catch your death o' cold.” “No, no; take me to my child at once.” “Can't be done; the governor has carried him off through the wood; and I ain't a going to let you travel the wood. You come with me; we'll go the short cut, and be home as soon as them.” She complied, though trembling all over. On the way he told her where the children had been discovered, and in what attitude.