Grandmamma, Duke,
Pamela and Barbara, with Nurse and Biddy, and Dymock and Cook, and
stable-boys and gardeners, and everybody, and Toby everywhere at once.
Broken words and sobs and kisses and tears and blessings all together,
and Pamela's little soft high voice sounding above all as she cried--

"Oh, dear Grandmamma, us _is_ so glad you are not dead. Duke was so
afraid you might be."

And Tim--where was he?--standing outside in the porch, but smiling to
himself--not afraid of being forgotten, for he had a trustful nature.

"It's easy to see as the old gentleman and lady is terrible fond of
master and missy," he thought. "But they must be terrible clever folk in
these parts to have writing outside of the house even," for his glance
had fallen on the quaintly-carved letters on the lintel, "Niks sonder
Arbitt." "I wonder now what that there writing says," he reflected.

But he was not allowed to wonder long. A few moments more and there came
the summons his faithful little heart had been sure would come.

"Tim, Tim--where is Tim? Come and see our Grandpapa and our Grandmamma,
Tim," and two pairs of little hot hands dragged him into the parlour.

It was not at all like his dream, but it was far grander than any room
he had ever been in before, and never afterwards did the boy forget the
strange sweet perfume which seemed a part of it all--the scent of the
dried rose-leaves in the jars, though he did not then know what it was.
But it always came back to him when he thought of that first
evening--the beginning to him of a good and honest and useful life--when
the tall old gentleman and the sweet little old lady laid their hands on
his curly head and blessed him for what he had done and promised to be
his friends.

They kept their promise well and wisely. Grandpapa took real trouble to
find out what the boy was best fitted for, and when he found it was for
gardening, Tim was thoroughly trained by old Noble till he was able to
get a good place of his own. He lived with Barbara in her neat little
cottage, and in the evenings learned to read and write and cipher, so
that before very long he could make out the letters in the porch, though
Grandpapa had to be asked to tell their meaning.

"Nothing without work," was what they meant. They had been carved there
by the old Dutchman who had built the farmhouse, afterwards turned into
the pretty quaint "Arbitt Lodge."

"A good and true saying," added Grandpapa, and so the thre