Chapter 2

High noon was not the best time for fishing but the early spring day was so warm and lovely that Phoebe Churchill could not resist her niece Helen's entreaties to go afield. After all, the household chores were done and they'd seen to the goats, the chickens, the bees and the garden. There was no reason why seven-year old Helen could not do her daily lessons outdoors just as well as she could indoors.

"How about things that begin with an L?" Phoebe suggested as she cast her line toward the deepest part of the pond.

"Hmm." The golden-haired little girl's brow puckered in concentration. "Ladybirds"

"Very good."

"And licorice sticks."

"Even better," Phoebe said, as she played the lure deftly across the surface of the quiet pond.

"Let's see. Love and loons, and ... Lucky four-leaf clover!" Helen crowed, holding one up. "Look Phoebe. Look what I've found!"

A strike on Phoebe's line just then prevented her looking. "I've hooked one. A big one too!"

"Don't lose him!" Helen shouted, and scrambled to Phoebe's side.

"Come along, Master Trout," Phoebe coaxed as she fought the game creature, moving down along the pond bank. "You shall make a lovely meal. Or two," she added. He felt that big and strong.

It took several minutes of teasing him to the bank before she could land the silvery creature, and they were in high spirits as they made their way back to their lunch basket.

Except that their old willow basket was gone.

"What in the world?" Phoebe stared around in confusion. Not only was the basket and its half-loaf of bread, jar of pickles, and hunk of cheese gone, so was the tattered old blanket they'd spread in a grassy area near the trees.

"What happened to our lunch?" Helen asked, looking around as if their picnic were only misplaced.

"I don't know," Phoebe muttered, glaring toward the woods, searching for the sign of the guilty party. "Maybe Gypsies."

"Gypsies?" At once Helen pressed up against Phoebe's side. "Let's go home Phoebe. Gypsies are bad. Grandma said they're murdering thieves who steal bad children right out of their beds."

A little shiver coursed through Phoebe as she scanned the familiar, yet now threatening forest. But to Helen she said, "Then you've nothing to fear, have you? For you are a very good child. The best."

They left at once. At least they had the trout and her fishing rig. But that was little comfort to Phoebe. Maybe Mr. Blackstock was right, she fretted. Maybe they did live too far from town for safety. For if a thief could steal from them at midday, what might he do at night?

Or when they were away from the house!

"Hurry," she said, breaking into a trot.

"Are they after us too?" Helen asked, squeezing Phoebe's hand so hard it hurt.

"Oh, no, sweetheart. I'm just hungry, that's all."

Everything at home appeared fine. The three goats were still in the meadow; the chickens ranged around the yard and garden, and none appeared missing. But even so, Phoebe's worries did not abate. She would have to inform the magistrate about this the next time she went into Swansford, even though she knew Mr. Blackstock would point to this as one more reason why she must sell her cottage and farm and move into town. But Phoebe refused to do that, at least not until she'd exhausted all her resources.

Come the morning, however, the bucket at the well came up missing, as did her little gardening bench. She could see the marks in the grass where it had been dragged away.

But why would Gypsies steal a bucket and a bench when a goat would be much more useful to them? It made no sense. Perhaps it wasn't Gypsies at all. But then who?

"Put on your mourning dress," she told Helen. "We're going to town." She didn't have to explain what when she turned the barely used key in the ancient door lock. Too bad she couldn't lock up the carrots and turnips in the garden, or the tools in the shed next to the chicken house.

Dew still clung to the grass and heather as they made the two-mile walk to the small village of Swansford. Phoebe carried three-dozen eggs and Helen carried a round of soft goat cheese. They meant to exchange them at Leake's Emporium for flour, soap, and thread. She also had two books to return to Mr. Blackstock, who had the only library in town.

Outside Leake's, three old women with shopping baskets propped against their hips stood in earnest conversation with the vicar. A large farm wagon stood outside the store. Phoebe recognized it as belonging to Farley Park, though she hadn't seen it often. Already it was half full of supplies.

"Goodness, they're buying out the shop," Phoebe muttered. "Hurry up, Helen."