David had borrowed the lantern that afternoon from a Clough End friend under the most solemn vows of secrecy, and he drew it out now with a deliberate and special relish.

When he had driven a peg into a cranny of the rock, trimmed half a dip carefully, lighted it, put it into the lantern, and hung the lantern on the peg, he fell back on his heels to study the effect, with a beaming countenance, filled all through with the essentially human joy of contrivance.
'Now, then, d'yo see what that tarpaulin's for ?' he inquired triumphantly of Louie.
But Louie's mouth was conveniently occupied with a bull's-eye, and she only sucked it the more vigorously in answer.
'Why, yo little silly, if it worn't for that we couldno ha no leet.
They'd see us from t' fields even, as soon as it's real dark.' 'Doan't bleeve it,' said Louie, laconically, in a voice much muffled by bull's-eyes.
'Wal, yo needn't; I'm gooin to have my tea.' And David, diving into the tin, brought out a hunch of bread and a knob of cheese.

The voracity with which he fell on them, soon, with him also, stopped up the channels of speech.

Louie, alarmed perhaps by the rapidity with which the mouthfuls disappeared, slid up on her heels and claimed her share.

Never was there a more savoury meal than that! Their little den with its curtain felt warm for the moment after the keen air of the moor; the lantern light seemed to shut them in from the world, gave them the sense of settlers carving a home out of the desert, and milk which had been filched from Aunt Hannah lay like nectar in the mouth.
After their meal both children crept out on to the moor to see what might be going on in the world outside.