"No, s'long as it ain't wicked bad. We'll be highwaymen, but we won't be thieves and robbers." "We can get into the cathedral, too," suggested David. And then, with minds full of revolution and anarchy, the boys bent earnestly to the preliminary work of making their passage secure. "Ross and Orme, you're never to go along there without us," David said to his young brothers, when he had wriggled back to the cave whence his passage started. Now their services were no longer needed, they were felt to be rather nuisances. "If you do, you'll get smacked right hard," said Sandy. Both children fixed round eyes on their elders, unable to understand this sudden change. They were dismayed at its injustice. For some days they had been treated with indulgent kindness, all their faults overlooked, so long as they did diligent work. They were cleaned when possible, and consoled when their dirty appearance awoke wrath in the powers responsible for them. Now, it seemed, all was changed. There was no mistaking Sandy's attitude, as he stood ready to administer the smacks alluded to. Nor were David's frowning brows more encouraging. Ross tried argument. "We'se scooped, too," he said. "We'se got dirty, ever so," he added. "Ever so," echoed Orme. "No matter! You kids must do as you're bid, and if ever you go a step along there you'll catch it. See?" said David. And the infants, with moody brows, averred that they saw. By this time the hole which formed the entrance to the cave was much improved. The wooden steps had been replaced by a flight of mud steps, the making of which had been a joy, not only to the boys, but to the baby. They had required water as well as mud in their making--endless paddlings and pattings and treadings down of little feet before the staircase was complete. David had engineered the proceedings, and Mr. Warde, now and then hovering about the top, had conferred advice. He was not encouraged to descend. The boys wanted no prying grown-ups to mar their schemes. Marjorie, now and then, had suspicions that some extra mischief was afloat. Never before had she known them to stick to anything for so long. But she recollected the fascination of caves and holes, and was, besides, much engaged with her own concerns. [Illustration: =The Bishop and the boy.=--_p. 170._] One evening the Bishop, on leaving the drawing-room, had gone to his study. It had been a wet day, and the rain had finished in a thunderstorm an hour or so before, leaving the sky washed and pellucid under the summer moon. The shutters had been closed and a little fire lighted; but presently, finding the room warm, the Bishop opened the window, and stood gazing over the wide lawn which occupied the space between the house and the ruins. The delicate tracery of the ruined window of the banqueting hall, and the many unevennesses of the walls, stood out black against the sky. Every object on the lawn--every bush and tree and flower--was sharply distinct.