But his dream left a hopeful feeling in his heart. It was still very early morning and all his companions were asleep. Tim got up and very quietly crept out of the sort of one-sided tent, made by drawing a sail-cloth downwards from the top of the van, where he and the other boys slept. He walked a little way over the rough moor, for there was no road, scarcely even a track, and looked down to where, in the clear thin morning light, the canal lay glittering below. Then he gazed over the waste in front. Which way would they be going? Would they skirt the canal more closely or branch off and strike away from it? Tim could not tell. But he resolved to keep his eyes and ears open and to find out. All that day the gipsy vans jolted along the rough cart-track across the moor. They halted as usual at mid-day--but Tim could not get to speak to the twins at all. And then the caravan started again and went rumbling on till much later than usual, for, as Tim overheard from the gipsies' conversation, they were eager now to get to Crookford, where the fair was to be, as quickly as possible. When they at last stopped for the night it was almost dark; but the boy crept close up to the entrance of the waggon where he knew the children to be, and hid himself at the side, and, as he expected, the two little figures came timidly forward. "Diana," they said softly, and he heard the girl answer not unkindly, but coldly, as was her way. "Well, what now?" "Mayn't us come out a little bit, even if it is dark? Us is so tired of being in here all day." "And my head's aching," added Pamela. Diana hesitated. A small fine rain--or perhaps it was only mist--was beginning to fall; but in spite of that she would probably have let them out a little had not Mick just then come forward. "They want out a bit," she said. "They're tired like with being mewed up in there all day and never a breath of air--no wonder," and she made as if she were going to lift Pamela down the steps. "Are you crazed, girl?" said the gipsy, pushing her back. "To let them out now in the chill of the evening, and it raining too--to have them catch their deaths of cold just as I've some chance of making up for all the trouble they've cost me. Fool that I was to be bothered with them. But you're not a-going to spoil all now--that I can tell ye." Diana looked at him without speaking. She was not at all in the habit of giving in to him, but she knew that a quarrel terrified the children. She felt too, as she lifted her dark face to the clouded sky, that it was really raining, and she reflected that there might be truth in what Mick said so rudely. [Illustration: "THEY WANT OUT A BIT," SHE SAID. "THEY'RE TIRED LIKE WITH BEING MEWED UP IN THERE ALL DAY AND NEVER A BREATH OF AIR--NO WONDER."--p. 132.]