stairs listening, to try to discover where everyone was, and could hear no voices or footsteps near, his spirits rose. He crept upstairs swiftly and stealthily, almost without a sound, except for the creaking of a board in the passage outside his mother's door. She heard it, and called out, "Who is that? Is that Paul?" But he went on without answering, though he felt very mean for doing so, and soon gained his own room. He was scarcely a moment taking off his muddy boots and hiding them in the bottom of his play-box; then he put on his slippers, dabbed over the front of his head with a wet hair brush, smeared a little water over his face and hands, wiped the dirt off on the towel, and crept downstairs again in a few moments, as softly as he had crept up.

When Mrs. Anketell came down ten minutes later, saying, "I wish Paul had come, he will be late for dinner," she found him coiled up in the big arm-chair with a book on his knee, and apparently absorbed in the story. He was so deeply absorbed in fact that he did not look up when she spoke, not, indeed, until she exclaimed, "Oh, Paul, dear, then you are back. Have you been here long? I did not know you were in the house, and I was quite anxious about you."

Then he looked up at her with an abstracted air, as though his mind was still so deep in the story that it was closed to everything, and he could hardly hear or take in what she was saying. "No-o not very long," he answered vaguely, and to hide his eyes, which could not meet his mother's, he dropped them on to the pages again.

"Did you hurry back to go on with your book?" asked his mother, standing by him, and looking over his shoulder. "I am glad you find it so interesting. Father was afraid you did not care for it, as you never looked at it. But why do you hold it upside down, dear?"

Paul coloured hotly, and held his head lower to hide it. "To—to—the picture looks so funny this way," he said lamely, and then, to his great relief, the maid said dinner was ready, and he escaped any further embarrassment for the moment. But only for the moment.

CHAPTER VII.

A TROUBLESOME PAIR OF BOOTS.

Muggridge had told him to bring his boots out to the boot-house, when he could manage to get them there without any one seeing him, that he might clean them for him, and nobody be the wiser. So Paul waited anxiously for the opportunity. He knew it must be done soon, as his mother would miss the boots and make inquiries about them, for he had only the one pair of strong everyday boots now besides his best ones, as the others had been almost spoilt by his first adventure in the morass, and had been sent away to the shoemaker's.

As soon as dinner was finished his troubles began again.

"I am going to walk to Four Bridges this afternoon," said Mr. Anketell; "who will go with me? We will have tea there, and walk home in the evening."

Stella and Michael jumped with delight. They enjoyed this sort of excursion more than anything that could be offered them; and, as a rule, Paul enjoyed it even more than they. But to-day he did not express his usual pleasure, and sat looking red and embarrassed when his father looked questioningly at him.

"Well, Paul, what do you say?" he asked, wondering at the boy's silence.

"I—I should like to go very much," stammered Paul awkwardly, "but I've hurt my foot. I hurt it jumping out of the cart."

This, to a certain extent, was true, but under ordinary circumstances Paul would have been the last to allow such a trifle to keep him from anything he desired. A series of questions followed, which he found very difficult to answer, and finally Paul had to submit to having his ankle bound with a wet cloth, while Mrs. Anketell decided to give up the afternoon's excursion and stay at home with him. "And we will have tea in the orchard," she said consolingly, "to make up for the loss of our tea at Four Bridges; that will be pleasanter than having it indoors." The kinder they were to him the more unhappy and uncomfortable Paul felt, and the less chance he saw of carrying out his plan; but his lowness of spirits stood him in good stead here, for his mother and father put it down to the pain he was suffering, and no one questioned the truth of his story about the injured foot.

But his impatience and his anxiety were such as he never forgot. It seemed to him ages before the little party started off on their expedition; first there was one hindrance and then another, until he could have screamed with impatience and anxiety, and even when they were gone he could not get away, for his mother sat with him and read to him, and he watched with dread the hands of the clock go round, as the afternoon wore quickly away. The boots must be cleaned before to-morrow morning, or the traces of his escapade would betray him.

At last, however, Mrs. Anketell stopped reading, and said she must write a letter. And Paul, without a moment's delay, seized the opportunity to limp from the room. He really had to limp now, for the bandage was so tight about his ankle that he could not bend it. Mrs. Anketell, hearing his uneven steps, called to him not to use his foot too much. "All right," he called back willingly, for he was only too thankful that she did not prohibit him from using it altogether. Then he stumbled out to the stairs, and clambering up them a good deal faster than he usually moved, reached his room without further interruption. His heart was beating furiously with excitement and fear, but he could not pause a moment to steady himself, for he felt he had not a second to lose. Dragging his play-box softly out from under the bed, he plunged his hand to the bottom and soon drew out his troublesome boots; then tucking them under his coat, which barely served to cover them, he slid down the banisters to save all noise, and tore out into the yard, and around the corner to the boot-house, as though a pack of wolves was after him. But, in turning the corner, he came face to face with something he had not expected, and that was the burly form of Farmer Minards himself. Paul's heart sunk like lead, and he went cold all over with apprehension.

"Hullo, young gentleman," said the old man, "I thought you was laid by the heels?"

Paul tried to smile. "I hurt my foot, and couldn't walk to Four Bridges, but it isn't much."

"Where be 'ee off now?" asked the farmer, looking anxiously at the funny-shaped protuberances under Paul's arms. "Be 'ee going for a stroll by yerself? Can't keep in, I s'pose, but must be out in the fresh air."

"Oh, I—I ain't going far," stammered Paul. "I am only just having a look round."

"Would 'ee care to come and see 'em cutting the hay in the Little Meadow? It wouldn't be far for 'ee to walk; we've got the new machine, and 'tis a real beauty. All the men are out there looking at un."

It did seem to Paul altogether too cruel that so many things he would have given anything to see and do should happen that afternoon, and that he should have to refuse them. "Oh, I—I—" and then he stopped. He could not go all out there with his boots under his arms, nor could he get rid of them while Farmer Minards stood looking at him; he had to keep up the pretence, too, about his foot. "I've strained my ankle, rather," he said lamely. "I'm afraid I could not walk so far. Mother has bandaged it, and I've only got my slippers on. I'm awfully sorry," he added with genuine regret.

"Never mind, sir, you can come another time. I'm sorry you're so bad, but when I saw you cutting along so spry I thought perhaps you was all right again; but we shall be using un again next week, and you can come then, perhaps," and Farmer Minards at last moved away, to Paul's intense relief, for he had been terrified all the time lest someone else should come along and catch him.

He ran on to the boot-house, but with little hope of finding Muggridge there now, for he would probably be out in the hay-field with the rest of