On the Mountain.
"Here is a nicer cup than that."
This was always Fanny's way of consoling herself and quieting her conscience when it happened to be disturbed: "I can't help it now, so there is no use in worrying myself about it."
She jumped up and dressed herself as nicely as possible, and ran down stairs to help her grandmother with the milk without stopping to say her prayers, as she had been very careful to do lately.
Mrs. Cassell had promised to come early, and by ten o'clock the carriage was seen by Fanny's eager eyes coming slowly up the long ascent. Mrs. Lilly's farm lay mostly on the first rise of the mountain, as it was called, a kind of broad terrace ascending from the river, which ran through the valley, to a nearly level plain of some quarter of a mile in extent. Besides this, Mrs. Lilly owned a broad strip of meadow-land along the river, and a large extent of pasture and forests extending to the "No man's land" and cloudland on the top of the great mountain which overlooked Hillsborough.
To Annie, coming from Detroit, where the land is literally as flat as a pancake and the river looks as if it had been spilled on the top of the ground, this country of mountains and swift-running streams, "of fountains and depths that spring out of valleys and hills," was a land of enchantment. It was as beautiful as fairyland the little girl thought, but, like fairyland, it was also rather alarming in respect that one never knew exactly what might be coming next. She had received the announcement that they were going to make a visit up on the mountain with some inward misgivings. And when she found herself going up and up without seeming ever to come to the end, she began to wish herself at home. But when she finally arrived and was met by Mrs. Lilly's cordial welcome, all her fears vanished, and she was quite ready to respond to the old lady's kindness, and to enjoy herself thoroughly.
"And where is Hugh?" asked Mrs. Lilly. "I hope he is not going to disappoint us."
"Hugh will come up this afternoon," said Mrs. Brandon. "He was all ready this morning, and indeed came with us as far as the post-office, when he found a bundle of proof-sheets lying in wait for him, so he had to return and devote himself to them. He will ride up this afternoon as soon as he finishes his work. But proof-sheets are like time and tide: they wait for no man."
"No, I suppose not," said Mrs. Lilly. "Well, I am sorry, but it is not as if this was the only day there was, so you needn't look so doleful, Willy. But come, you had better get your things off. You know the way up stairs, Emma."
As soon as Annie had disposed of the piece of cake which Mrs. Lilly was sure she must need after her ride, Fanny took possession of her. She was fond of children in her selfish way—that is, she liked to play with them as if they were dolls, and amuse herself with them as long as they were "good,"—that is, just so long as they did exactly what she wished.
Annie would have been quite contented to look out of the windows and amuse herself with the Indian curiosities, of which Mrs. Lilly had a great collection, but it was one of Fanny's ways that she never could enjoy herself in the presence of grown people. She could not be easy till she had drawn Annie out of the parlour and carried her off to her own room, where she got out her doll to amuse her visitor. They played with it for some time, and then Fanny proposed that they should go out.
"Can we go and see the raccoon?" said Annie. "Uncle Hugh said Willy had a tame raccoon."
"Oh yes, you shall see everything, and I will take you to the prettiest place you ever saw," replied Fanny, who felt very amiable and patronizing. "I will show you the spring up in the woods, and everything."
"That will be nice," said Annie, "but we must ask grandma first."
"Of course," said Fanny; "I will go and ask her now while you dress the doll."
"Take Annie up to the spring?" repeated Mrs. Lilly, aloud, after Fanny had whispered in her ear. "Why, yes, I suppose so, if Mrs. Cassell has no objection."
"Where is the spring?" asked Mrs. Cassell.
"Only a little way off—just upon the side of the hill. You can almost see it from this window. It is a very pretty place, and there is no danger for them to run into. Fanny spends half her time there, I think. But, Fanny, remember, you must not go into the woods."
"No, ma'am," answered Fanny.
"And don't leave Annie alone anywhere," said Mrs. Cassell. "Remember she has always been brought up in the city, and knows nothing about taking care of herself. Promise me that you will keep close by her."
"I will," answered Fanny. "I will not leave her alone a minute. Please let Willy ring the bell in the garden, grandma, when you want us to come in."
"Very well," said Mrs. Lilly; "we shall not have dinner till two, so you will have a nice time to play and enjoy yourselves."
Fanny put on Annie's hat and jacket, and then led her out to see the raccoon and the guinea hens. As they were looking at the former, Willy came up.
"Now, Willy, you may just go away," said Fanny, sharply. "We don't want you around after us."
Annie looked surprised. She was not used to hear people spoken to in that way.
"It is my raccoon, and I suppose I have a right to look at it," returned Willy.
"Are you Willy Beaubien?" asked Annie.
"Yes," replied Willy, rather shyly, but added, presently, "I have seen you at Sunday-school. Don't you want to see Cooney eat? He looks real cunning."
"Oh yes," exclaimed Annie, much interested. "What does he eat?"
"Oh, anything that he can get. I will run and ask Oney for some cake for him."
"Come, Annie, let's run away while he is gone," said Fanny.
"I don't want to," answered Annie; "I want to see the raccoon eat."
Fanny was tempted to speak sharply, but recollecting herself, she said, "I shouldn't think you would care about that. Come, we sha'n't have any time at all."
But Annie had a little will of her own as well as Fanny, and she would not stir till Willy came back with the cake, and till she had seen the raccoon eat, and had agreed with Willy that he was very cunning and looked as if he knew everything.
"Just as if he knew what we were talking about!" said Annie. "I guess you like animals very well, don't you, Willy?"
"Yes," answered Willy. "I was going to ask you whether you would let me see your Guinea pigs, some time."
"Yes, indeed, and give you a pair, if you like," replied Annie, smiling; "I am sure you would be good to them."
"I don't believe grandma will let him have them," said Fanny, growing cross, as usual, as soon as she was not the chief object of attention. "She says Willy has so many playthings now that he doesn't attend to his work."
"I guess you stretched that a little," said Willy. "Anyhow, I can ask her."
"Well, do come, Annie, if you are ever coming," said Fanny.
The truth was, she was growing uneasy. She had seen Sarah going up to the spring some time before, and was afraid of her losing patience and putting into execution her threat of coming down to the house.
Annie saw that for some reason Fanny was really annoyed, and she at once gave up looking at the guinea hens and followed her conductor through the garden and across the fields.
"See, here is the spring," said Fanny, when they reached the little mossy dell so often spoken of. "See how it comes running out of the mountain-side. Isn't it pretty?"
"Beautiful!" said Annie. "How clear and cool it is! Is it good to drink?"
"Yes, very. There is a cup here somewhere. Oh, here it is." And Fanny produced a somewhat rusty tin cup from under a stone, rinsed it, and filled it from the spring for Annie to drink.
"Here is a nicer cup than that," said Sarah Leyman, coming out from among the bushes, holding in her hand a large scallop shell, such as is frequently brought from Florida and Key West by travellers. "I found it this morning among some things in our garret, and brought it up on purpose for Annie to drink out of."
"Did you?" asked Annie, looking wonderingly at the dark, handsome girl. "That was very good of you. But how did you know that I was coming up here to-day?"
"Oh, a little bird told me," answered Sarah, playfully. "The little bird told me that a fairy was coming up to visit the spring, and would want something pretty to drink out of. Here, drink, little fairy."
"Oh how nice!" said Annie, after she had drank from the shell, which Sarah held to her lips. "I don't think I ever tasted such good water."
"More people than you have thought so," said Sarah. "I was reading a letter last night that your aunt wrote to my aunt from India, in which she said she would give all the fruit in India for one drink from this very spring."
"Was that my aunt Eugenia, and did she write to your aunt?" asked Annie, very much interested. "How nice that is! I should think that ought to make us some sort of cousins, shouldn't you?"
"Very distant cousins," answered Sarah, laughing. "Your name 'is' Annie, isn't it?"
"Yes—Annie Eugenia Mercer. I was named for my aunt and grandmother."
"And where do you live when you are at home, Annie Eugenia?"
"In Detroit," replied Annie.
"I suppose it is a great way off?"
"Oh yes; we were a night and two days coming, and we stopped one night at Albany. And oh, Fanny," exclaimed Annie, "you know I told you how that girl stole my doll on the cars?"
"Yes," answered Fanny. "Why?"
"Don't you think, day before yesterday, Uncle Hugh came up from the cars, and brought a great parcel directed to me. And when I opened it, there was a beautiful doll all dressed, and a letter from this very girl telling me she was sorry she had been so wicked, and she hoped I would forgive her, and that my doll was spoiled, but she had sent me another. Wasn't that nice?"
"Very nice," said Fanny.
"I didn't care so very much about the doll; though, after all, one can't have too many dolls," said Annie, sagely. "But it was nice to think she should be sorry and want to make up for what she had done. Grandma said it was beginning in the right way if Celia—the girl's name was Celia—really meant to be a good girl."
"What was beginning right?" asked Sarah—"Sending back the doll or saying she was sorry?"
"Both," replied Annie. "Grandma said—I am not sure that I can tell it just right—"
"Never mind," said Sarah, who seemed very much interested. "Tell it as well as you can."
"She said we must confess all our sins to God if we want them forgiven; and if they are against our neighbours—that is, if they have done harm to anybody, you know—"
"Yes," said Sarah, "I understand."
"Then we must go to them and try to make up, and if we have done them any damage, we must make it good. I didn't quite understand that at first, and grandma said if I had borrowed Mary Patterson's scissors, and lost or spoiled them, it wouldn't be enough to say I was sorry; I must buy her a new pair if I possibly could. So she said it was right in Celia to send me a new doll."
"I see," said Sarah. "Don't you think you are a happy little girl to have such a good grandma?"
"Yes, indeed!" said Annie, with emphasis. "Mary Patterson says I ought to be thankful every day that I have such good friends to take care of me."
"Who is Mary Patterson?" asked Fanny. She was not very easy under this conversation, and she was, moreover, in a great hurry to improve the time in finding out all about Annie's family history.
"Mary is my nurse," replied Annie. "She has lived at our house ever since I can remember, and we think everything of her."
"How many servants does your mother keep?" was Fanny's next question.
"Oh, let me see: there is Mary Patterson and old Mary the cook—only we don't call her 'old' Mary because mamma says it isn't polite, so we all call her Willis—and Jane the chambermaid, and Arthur, papa's servant, that was with him in the war, and John the coachman."
"Your father must be very rich to keep so many servants."
"Well, I suppose he is," replied Annie, simply. "I heard Uncle Harris say that papa was worth almost a million of dollars. That is a great deal, isn't it?"
"Why, yes, quite a good deal," said Sarah, laughing.
"My father is worth two millions," said Fanny, "and there are people on our street richer than that. But I didn't suppose anybody out West was as well off as that. I thought only poor people went West, and that they lived in log houses and never had anything nice."
"I don't think there are any log houses in Detroit, though I have seen them in the country," said Annie. "Detroit is a very pretty place, though not as nice as it is here, because it is all so flat. There isn't the least little bit of a hill anywhere round. If that hill Mr. Willson lives on were in Detroit, they would think it was a mountain."
"And what would they say to such a mountain as this?" asked Sarah.
"I don't know; I suppose they would be afraid of it, as I was when I first came here," said Annie.
"Oh, you needn't be afraid; he is a pretty good old mountain," said Sarah, who seemed very much taken with the pretty little child. "See what the mountain sent you by me." And going to a ledge of rock close by a kind of natural shelf, she produced two of her pretty little baskets, one filled with red raspberries, the other with blueberries.
"Oh how pretty!" exclaimed Annie. "Did the mountain send them to me? I am sure he was very kind."
"Yes; he told me to tell you that you were welcome to eat his berries and drink out of his spring, but you must never climb up on his back, because that is no place for little girls."
"Well, I won't. Tell him so, with my love. I should like to do something for him. I might work him a slipper—you know they talk of the foot of a mountain sometimes—only I shouldn't know where to get a piece of canvas big enough."
"How silly you are!" aid Fanny, who never could understand a joke. "The mountain isn't alive. It is only a great heap of rocks and dirt."
"I know it," said Annie. "I was only making believe."
Annie ate her berries, and then began admiring the mosses which grew all about the spring.
"I know where there are much prettier mosses than these," said Sarah, "but the place is too far for you to walk. Don't you want to sit here a few minutes while Fanny and I go and get you some snail shells?"
"I don't know," said Annie, rather doubtfully. "If you won't be gone long."
"Oh no, only a few minutes. You just sit still here or play about on the rocks, but don't go away from the spring, whatever you do. Come, Fanny, I want to speak to you. I have something to tell you and to ask you."
"I don't know about leaving Annie. I am afraid she will get into some mischief or other," said Fanny, hesitating a little, though she was very anxious to hear what Sarah had to tell. She had seen all the morning, through all Sarah's playfulness with Annie, that she had something more than usual on her mind, and she was very desirous of finding out what it was.
"I don't see what mischief she can get into," said Sarah, looking about her and considering. "There are no snakes. The wicked old bull is shut up in his stable, and the cattle are all away at the farther pasture. Even if she should take a notion to run home, she can't miss her way. You are not afraid to stay here a few minutes, are you, Annie?"
"No," said Annie—"only don't be long."
"Oh no; we will be back in a very few minutes."
"And you will bring me some snail shells, won't you?"
"Yes, if I can find them, and I am pretty sure I can. After all, Fanny, perhaps we had better not leave her alone. She is such a little thing she might get scared, and I can tell you some other day."
Fanny thought she saw in these last words an indication that Sarah had repented and did not mean to tell her what she had on her mind, and this made her all the more anxious to find out what it was. So she answered, decidedly,—
"Yes, I shall go, too. Mind, Annie, that you don't stir away from this place or you will get lost."
To do Sarah justice, she had not the least idea that in leaving Annie alone at the spring she was exposing her to any danger. The children she was acquainted with played in the woods all day long and made excursions after berries and flowers without any fear. She knew that there were no snakes and no wild animals bigger than a rabbit to be met with at this time of year, and she had really taken pains to assure herself that the bull was safely shut up in his stable. She wanted very much to speak to Fanny, and she did not see that she was likely to have another chance very soon.
Fanny was much more to blame than Sarah, for she had promised faithfully not to leave Annie alone for ever so short a time, and she ought to have kept her word. She knew this very well, but she said to herself that no harm would come to her, and that she must hear what Sarah had to say.
Sarah led the way in silence a short distance up the mountain, and then turned aside into the woods.
"Well?" said Fanny, as Sarah stopped and began gathering some wintergreen shoots. "Well?" she repeated, impatiently, as Sarah did not speak. "What do you want to say to me?"
"Fanny," said Sarah, "I want you to do me a very great favour."
"Well, what?"
"You told me you had a good deal of money of your own."
"Yes; my father gave me twenty dollars, and I have only spent a little of it. Why?"
"I want you to lend me ten dollars," said Sarah. "There! The murder is out."
Fanny looked very much taken aback. "Why do you want ten dollars?" she asked, with a good deal of suspicion in her tone.
"I will tell you all about it if you will listen," said Sarah. "Sit down here on this log."
The two girls sat down side by side, and Sarah went on in rather a low tone:
"After I left you yesterday, I went up in our garret and pulled out all Aunt Sally's old letters to read. There were a good many from Annie's aunt Eugenia in India, and from Mary Jane Merrill and other people. But at last I found the letters I wanted. They were from my Aunt Caroline, my mother's sister, over in Concord. She used to be a schoolteacher, but I knew she had married since, and I wanted to know what sort of woman she was. The letters were very nice indeed, and sounded a good deal like Aunt Sally herself. Then I asked ma about Aunt Caroline, and ma said she had married a rich man and felt above all her relations. But I kept on asking questions till I found out that Aunt Caroline had lost all her own children, and that she had wanted to adopt me or Ally when we were little, but father would not let either of us go. I made ma show me the last letter she had from Aunt Caroline, and it was a real good letter, and I made out that she had always helped ma a great deal."
"Well," said Fanny, impatiently, "what has that to do with my lending you ten dollars?"
"Just this," replied Sarah: "I have been thinking the matter over, and I have made up my mind what to do. If you will lend me ten dollars, I will go and see Aunt Caroline myself, and try to persuade her to take Ally to live with her. I don't think pa would care now. He don't like Ally because she is so plain and sickly. Then, if I succeed, I will get a place to work in a mill or somewhere, and take care of myself."
"Why don't you write to your aunt?" asked Fanny.
"Because I can't write very well, and I want to see Aunt Caroline and talk to her myself. If I have ten dollars, I can get myself a decent frock and hat, so that she need not be ashamed of me, and the rest of the money will pay my fare to Concord and back."
"If your aunt is rich, I should think she would lend you the money," said Fanny.
"I don't want to begin by asking her for money for myself," said Sarah, colouring. "She doesn't know anything about me. But if you will lend it to me, I will pay you back the very first money I earn."
"Oh, of course," said Fanny, sarcastically.
Sarah's eyes flashed. "Don't you believe me?" she asked.
Fanny was rather alarmed, and continued, in a superior but more friendly tone, "I suppose you think you would, but this is all nonsense, Sarah. It is the greatest wild-goose chase I ever heard of. Suppose you go to Concord, what good will it do? Your aunt won't do anything for you. As likely as not, she won't let you come into her house. And as for her adopting Ally, you might as well expect her to adopt a black baby. I know, because my mother is one of the managers of the orphan asylum, and I have heard her say that the people who take children always want a healthy, pretty child with curly hair."
"And what becomes of all the ugly, straight-haired children?" asked Sarah.
"Oh, I don't know. They get bound out, or something. Anyhow, nobody wants them, and I am sure your aunt wouldn't want Ally. You see it is all nonsense, Sarah. You couldn't do anything if you tried."
"Then you won't lend me the money, Fanny?" said Sarah, in a tone of deep mortification and disappointment.
"No, because I don't think there would be any use in it. You had a great deal better stay where you are, or else write a letter to your aunt and ask her to send you some money."
"I can't write, I tell you," said Sarah, flushing crimson. "I can't put one sentence together and spell the words right." She paused a moment, and then spoke again with more earnestness than before, and in a pleading tone very different from her usual off-hand manner:
"Come, Fanny, do lend me this money. It won't be very much to you even if you have to do without it a year, and it will be everything to me. I can't leave home while Ally is there, whatever happens, and I feel almost sure that Aunt Caroline will take the child if I can only see her and tell her how things are, which I couldn't do in a letter if I could write ever so well. If Ally is only safe, I know I can find some place where I can earn money. I can learn any kind of work easily enough if I only give my mind to it, and I will send you every dollar I earn. Come, Fanny, don't say 'No.' Why won't you lend it to me?"
"Because I want it myself," said Fanny, coming to the true reason at last. "I have only that twenty dollars to last me for pocket-money till my father comes home, and I am always wanting candy or something that grandma won't buy for me. As likely as not you never would pay me, and then I should lose it altogether."
"Don't you think I am honest, Fanny? I risked more than that for you the day we met the bull," said Sarah, with a quiver in her voice. "I didn't stop to think whether you would ever pay me."
"That is different," said Fanny.
"Yes, there is a good deal of difference between risking your life and risking ten dollars," said Sarah, dryly. "Fanny, why did you ever make friends with me if you don't care enough for me to do as much as that for me?"
"Because I had no one else to play with, and it was so stupid at grandma's with nobody to speak to," said Fanny, speaking the truth for once.
"Then, if you had any one else to play with—anybody more genteel—you wouldn't care any more about me?"
"Well, no, I don't know that I should. You see, Sarah, you are very different from me."
"Very different," said Sarah, rising—"so different that the less we have to do with each other, the better."
As she spoke, she went a little farther into the wood and began to turn over the fallen sticks and leaves.
Fanny followed her, feeling rather uneasy.
"What are you looking for?" she asked.
"Some shells for Annie," answered Sarah, without looking up. "You had better go to her. She may get tired of staying alone."
"I don't want to go without you," said Fanny.
Sarah did not reply; but having found what she sought, she turned back.
"I suppose you are very angry with me?" said Fanny, presently.
"No, I am not," returned Sarah. "I am angry at myself for ever having cared for you."
"You say so because you are vexed at not getting the money," said Fanny, "but I think you are very unreasonable."
"If you say another word, I will box your ears," said Sarah. In another moment she added, more gently, "I am sorry I said that. I shall never see you again, and I did love you dearly, Fanny."
The tone in which Sarah said this showed that she at least was not heartless.
"What makes you say that?" asked Fanny.
"Because it is true. I shall go to Aunt Caroline's, if I have to walk every step. Besides, I never want to see you again—never!"
As Sarah said these words, the two girls came in sight of the spring. Annie was not there.
CHAPTER IX.
THE LOST CHILD.
"THERE, now! See what a scrape you have got me into!" said Fanny, angrily. "Tiresome little thing! She has run off home; and now she will tell them that I left her alone."
"Well, what of that?" returned Sarah. "What harm was there in your leaving her alone a few minutes in a safe place?"
"Because I promised I wouldn't, stupid! That's why."
"Did you really promise not to leave her alone?" asked Sarah, gravely.
"Of course I did. Her grandmother wouldn't let her come unless I promised not to leave her alone anywhere. A nice scrape you have got me into with your secrets!"
"You never told me you had promised, so don't lay all the blame on me," said Sarah. "Besides, I wanted to come back and wait till another time, and you wouldn't. I don't suppose there is any harm done. She has got tired and run back to the house. Fanny," said Sarah, suddenly starting and turning pale, "you don't suppose she has started to find us, do you?"
"No, of course not," returned Fanny, impatiently. "What do you want to put such a notion into one's head for?"
"I never thought of her doing such a thing," continued Sarah, looking very uneasy. "I should never forgive myself in the world if any harm should happen to the dear little thing. Do run down to the house and make sure that she is safe."
"Oh yes, that is all you think about," said Fanny, in an injured tone. "You don't care anything about what they will say to me, I suppose."
"Well, no, not much," returned Sarah. "Why should I? I don't suppose they will break any of your bones, and you haven't shown any very particular regard to my feelings. But why don't you go?"
"Of course—" Fanny began, but Sarah interrupted her.
"Now, just look here, Fanny, if you don't go, I shall go myself. I suppose, of course, that Annie is safe, but I want to know for certain. I can't bear to think of her wandering in the woods half scared to death, and perhaps falling into Pope's hole."
"For goodness' sake, what is Pope's hole?" asked Fanny. "I have heard of it ever since I came here, and I don't know what any one means by it."
"It is a deep, deep gulley—a hole in the mountain nobody knows how deep—with high steep walls of rock all around it, and it is half full of water, and under the water is soft black mud. Cattle get in sometimes, and never get out again. A man named Pope fell in when the country was new, and for two or three years nobody knew what had become of him. But one very dry summer, when the water was low, somebody saw a gun lying partly out of the water. So he got somebody to let him down with ropes, and then he found Pope's gun and his watch, but they never found the body. It is an awful dark place to look into. But come, Fanny, do run home. Wave your handkerchief at the back door, and then I shall know if she is safe."
Seeing that there was no help for it, Fanny obeyed. She did not or would not believe that Annie was lost, and she dreaded only the reproof she was sure to receive for leaving the child alone at the spring. She reached the house without seeing anybody, and went straight up to her own room, turning, however, at the door to wave her handkerchief.
Sarah saw the signal, and satisfied that the child was safe, she went back to the spruce wood, and sat down to consider what she should do next.
"It is time the children were at home," said Mrs. Lilly, presently. "Oney, you may tell Willy to ring the bell in the garden."
Oney called Willy, and then went up stairs for a clean apron. As she did so she bethought herself to look into Fanny's room and see whether there was a supply of water and clean towels. To her great surprise, she found Fanny sitting by the window reading.
"Why, Fanny!" she exclaimed, in surprise. "I thought you were up at the spring with Annie. Where is she?"
"Down stairs in the parlour, of course," said Fanny, vainly trying to speak in an ordinary tone. "I wish you would not come into my room without knocking, Oney."
"I didn't know you were at home," replied Oney. "But are you sure Annie is down stairs? I haven't seen her."
"Of course she is. Do go away and let me alone, can't you?"
Oney began at once to suspect that something was wrong. She had no confidence in Fanny, and she had seen nothing of little Annie. She went directly down stairs and opened the parlour door.
"Well, Oney, have you come to tell us that dinner is ready?" asked Mrs. Lilly.
"Dinner is pretty nearly ready," replied Oney. "Is Annie here?"
"Annie? No," answered Mrs. Cassell, starting. "Have the children come in? I have not seen them."
"Fanny is up in her room, and she just now told me that Annie was down here," said Oney.
Mrs. Cassell turned pale. She was rather a nervous woman, and she naturally felt a great deal of responsibility about Annie.
"Don't be frightened," said Mrs. Lilly. "I dare say she is out with Willy looking at the chickens." As she spoke, she went to the foot of the stairs and called, "Fanny, come down directly."
"I have got my shoes and stockings off, grandma," answered Fanny, who had indeed stripped them off with all speed the moment Oney had left the room.
Mrs. Lilly went up stairs.
"Why are you barefooted?" was her first question.
"I wet my feet, and had to change my shoes and stockings," answered Fanny, searching in her drawer for a pair of stockings, and taking a long time to find them.
Mrs. Lilly's quick eye fell on the boots which Fanny had just taken off.
"Your shoes are as dry as a bone," said she, taking one of them in her hand. "But never mind that now. Where is Annie?"
"Down stairs, I suppose," answered Fanny, shortly.
"Where did you leave her?"
"I didn't leave her at all. She ran away from me and came home," said Fanny. "Cross, hateful little thing! I wish she had never come here."
"Put on your shoes and stockings and come down stairs," said Mrs. Lilly. "Don't spend time looking in the drawer. Put on those you took off."
There was that in Mrs. Lilly's voice and manner which made Fanny afraid to trifle any longer. She put on her shoes and stockings, and followed down stairs sulkily enough.
"Now," said she, "tell us just where you left Annie."
Short as the time was in which to do it, Fanny had made up her story, and she told it glibly enough:
"I was cutting some birch bark for Annie, and I dropped my knife, and while I was looking for it, Annie said she did not like the woods and she would go back to the house. I told her to wait a minute and I would go with her, but she began to cry and scream and say she would go alone. Then I went with her to the garden and watched her almost into the house, and then I went back to find my knife."
"That does not sound at all like Annie," said Mrs. Brandon. "She is not apt to cry because she cannot have her own way."
"I don't know anything about that," said Fanny, pertly. "I know she screamed loud enough this morning. I should have come all the way with her, only I wanted to find my knife, and I didn't see what harm could happen to her between the garden fence and the house."
"Where can she be?" said Mrs. Cassell.
"She may have gone away with Willy," replied Mrs. Lilly. "He is very fond of children, and very likely he has taken her off to see some wonderful sights in the barn."
"Willy is up in his room," said Oney. "I will call him."
But Willy could give no account of Annie. He had not seen her since they were feeding the raccoon.
"What shall we do?" said Mrs. Cassell. "Where can the child have gone? Is there any well or cistern that she can fall into?"
"Oh no. I never allow such things to be left uncovered. Fanny, are you telling the truth? Did you really come with Annie as far as the garden fence?"
"Yes, I did," answered Fanny, positively. "I stood at the fence and watched her clear to the back door."
"Were you and Annie alone at the spring, or did you have company?" asked Willy.
Fanny made a face, and did not answer.
"Why don't you answer Willy's question?" asked Mrs. Lilly. "Was Sarah Leyman with you? I presume it was Sarah that Willy meant."
"No," answered Fanny, boldly. "Sarah is very angry with me, and won't speak to me because I would not give her some money. She said, the last time I saw her, that she never meant to speak to me again."
"But where can Annie be?" asked Willy. "I will go out and look round the yard. Maybe she has gone to see the coon again."
But in vain did they search the garden and yard; no Annie was to be found. By this time the alarm grew very serious, and in the midst of it, Mr. Brandon made his appearance.
"You see I did come, after all," said he, gayly, as he entered the parlour. "I found my proofs could wait a day, so I put them in my pocket and came along. But what is the matter?" he asked, in alarm, for Mrs. Brandon burst into tears on seeing him.
"Oh, Hugh, Annie is lost!" exclaimed his wife and mother together.
"Lost!" exclaimed Mr. Brandon. "What do you mean?"
Mrs. Lilly told the story as she had heard it from Fanny, adding that they had searched the farm over, and that both Oney and Willy were still looking. Mr. Brandon stood thinking for a moment.
"Come here, Fanny," said he, sitting down and drawing her toward him. "Come here; I want to talk to you. Now, don't cry, but tell me the plain truth. How far did you go with Annie?"
"To the garden fence," replied Fanny.
"The back garden fence?"
Fanny assented.
"How did Annie get over the fence?"
"I let down the bars."
"How could you do that when there are none?" asked Mrs. Lilly.
"I don't mean that. I took down two or three rails and put them up again."
"Well, what then?"
"Then I stood and watched her into the house, and then I went back to find my knife."
"Why did Annie want to come into the house?" was the next question.
"I don't know. I suppose she was afraid to stay alone." This was an unlucky slip.
"To stay alone!" repeated Mr. Brandon. "To stay alone where?"
"She was not really alone," said Fanny, seeing what a blunder she had made; "only she was down by the spring and I was up on the bank cutting the birch bark for her to play with."
"You are sure you did not go out of sight?"
"No," answered Fanny, snappishly. "I have said so ten times already."
"You did not leave her to go away for anything but the bark?"
"Only for the shells, and we were not gone five minutes, I am sure," said Fanny, making another slip.
"'We'! Who was with you besides Annie?"
"I just wish you would let me alone," cried Fanny, bursting into a violent fit of crying. "You confuse me so I don't know what I am about."
"But who do you mean by 'we'?" persisted Mr. Brandon. "Who was with you besides Annie?"
"Nobody; and I wish she had not been there, either, the cross, hateful little thing! I won't stay here another day," continued Fanny, working herself into a passion. "I will go to Boston if I have to live in the poorhouse. I won't stay here to be called a liar."
"Nobody has called you a liar, but I very much fear that you are one," said Mr. Brandon, gravely. "Mrs. Lilly, I am sorry to say so, but this girl is not speaking the truth. I believe she either went away and left Annie alone at the spring, or else sent her home alone."
"I am afraid you are right," said Mrs. Lilly, much distressed. "Fanny, do tell the truth. Think how much depends upon it—poor Annie's life, perhaps. Did you leave Annie alone at the spring?"
"No, I tell you," snapped Fanny.
"Why did you not come home with her?" asked Mrs. Cassell. "You promised me not to leave her a moment."
"I didn't leave her alone."
"Then what did you mean by saying you were not gone ten minutes?"
"I didn't say so." And that was all that could be got out of Fanny. She would only cry, and declare that she would go home to Boston.
"We are wasting time," said Mr. Brandon, looking at his watch. "It is three o'clock now. Are there any men about the place, Mrs. Lilly?"
"No. Mr. Wye is over at B—, and Pat went away two or three days ago."
"We must have help," said Mr. Brandon. "Are you sure the farm has been thoroughly searched?"
"I believe so," answered Mrs. Lilly. "Can you think of any place where we have not looked, Oney?"
"There is the old quarry," said Oney, rather reluctantly.
"Heaven help us!" groaned Mrs. Lilly. "She would never go there, surely. Fanny, you did not go near the old quarry, did you?"
"No," said Fanny.
"Besides, it is all covered up," said Mrs. Lilly.
Oney shook her head.
"It is not covered over," said she. "I have just been down to see, and the boards are gone. If Annie had taken a fancy to go and see the sheep—"
"We must have it searched at once," said Mr. Brandon. "Willy, bring me the rake, a stout string, and the largest pole you can find."
"Let me go with you," said Oney. "Mrs. Lilly, do make them eat something, or at least drink a cup of tea. The old lady looks ready to faint, and it is enough to kill Emma."
The old quarry was a deep pit which had been dug in the search for slates. It was full of water, and was usually kept closely covered, but now, as Oney had said, the boards were gone. In fact, Sam Leyman had helped himself to them only the night before for the purpose of mending his pig-pen. Mr. Brandon made a drag of the rake and some poles, and satisfied himself that Annie was not in the water.
"Well, so far, no news is good news," he said, trying to speak cheerfully, as he entered the parlour. "We must have help at once and search the woods. I have sent Willy over to Willson's and to call the Crane boys, and they will rouse all the men in the neighbourhood."
It was now four o'clock, and there was no time to lose. Willy was a fast runner, and soon left word at Deacon Crane's and Mr. Willson's that a child was lost on the mountains, and before half an hour, four or five stout young men were on their way to Mrs. Lilly's.
As Willy came back through the edge of the woods, he met Sarah Leyman slowly descending the steep path which here led up the mountain-side.
When Sarah had seen Fanny's signal, she went back to the spruce wood where they had been talking together, and sat down to think what she should do next. She was deeply disappointed and mortified. She had made up her mind that Fanny would certainly lend her the money, for she argued, "I am sure I would do as much for her in a minute if I had the money to lend."
Building on this very uncertain foundation, she had arranged all her plans. She did not mean to tell of her intended journey at home, for she knew that neither her father nor her mother would consent, and she had very little notion of honouring or obeying her parents. She had one decent dress. She would buy herself a hat and some other things, and take the night train, which would land her at Concord early in the morning—she was too often away all night for her absence to excite any surprise—and she would ask her aunt to write from Concord as soon as she had found her. She felt sure that Aunt Caroline would take Ally if the matter were properly represented to her.
"And then," thought Sarah, "I will buy a decent calico frock and go to work at anything I can find to do, and I will save every cent till I have enough to pay Fanny, and perhaps do something for ma."
This was Sarah's plan, which she had thought over till it appeared perfectly easy and reasonable—always provided that Fanny would lend her the money.
But Fanny had absolutely refused to lend her the money, and for no better reason than that she wanted to use it herself for things which her grandmother would not buy for her. Sarah could hardly believe it even now. She had exposed her own life for Fanny, and Fanny would not deny herself an ounce of sugar-plums for her.
Sarah, as I have said, was by nature generous and loyal. She had begun by loving Fanny dearly, and by fancying that such a pretty, graceful girl must be all but perfect. And though she had found out her mistake, she had gone on loving Fanny, and in some degree trusting her. But that was all over now. Her idol was effectually shattered, and with it, as it seemed, all her fine plans for helping herself and Ally. She did not know where to look for the money which was necessary for the carrying out of her scheme. She did not know of any way in which she could earn it, or anybody she could ask to lend it to her, unless, indeed, Mrs. Lilly would help her.
This was a new idea, and Sarah turned it over in her mind as she sat on the dry, rocky ground under the spruce trees. Mrs. Lilly had never been anything but kind to her, and Sarah was not disposed to resent the old lady's having forbidden Fanny to play with her.
"I should feel just so in her place, I know," she thought. "Though, after all, I don't see that Fanny is so much better than I am, only her folks are respectable. I wish I hadn't touched the pie. It was real mean. I wonder if she did laugh at me that night I came to the meeting? I don't half believe it. I believe Fanny made up the story to scare me. She was dreadfully afraid to have me see the old lady, for fear she should find out something. I have a great mind to go and see her—not to-day, though, because she has company. What a cunning, sweet little thing Annie is! I can think of Ally being just like her if she only had a chance."
And then Sarah began thinking over what Annie had said about Celia's returning the doll, and to wonder, if she should follow Celia's example, whether it would not be a right way of beginning that "being good" which she still desired; and a verse came into her mind which she had heard long ago.
"What was that? 'If we confess our sins, he is faithful to forgive us our sins'—something like that; Aunt Sally used to say it, and I guess it is in the Bible somewhere. If only I could tell of myself and not of Fanny! I don't want to get her into trouble."
Sarah sat still for some time, now pondering Annie's simple remarks, now turning over in her mind various plans, possible and impossible, for the accomplishment of her purpose. At last she rose, and ascending the mountain for some distance, she began a busy search for certain ferns and flowering plants which grow in those higher regions.
"Mr. Brandon seemed to think so much of them," she said to herself, "I will carry him a bunch of them, and maybe I shall get a chance to speak to the old lady."
Sarah had succeeded in her search, and, with full hands, was descending the hill toward the house, when she met Willy.
"Sarah, have you seen little Annie Mercer?" was Willy's first greeting.
"Seen her? No—not since twelve or one o'clock," replied Sarah, in surprise. "Why? What do you mean? What has happened to Annie?"
"That is just what nobody knows," replied Willy. "She went up to the spring with Fanny this morning, and Fanny says she brought her back as far as the garden fence and watched her almost into the house, but she never came in, and we can't find her anywhere. Where was she when you saw her?"
"She was up at the spring with Fanny," answered Sarah. "Does Fanny say she took Annie back to the garden?"
"Yes, but we don't know what to believe, she tells so many different stories."
Sarah had a quick mind, and even while Willy was speaking, she saw all the terrible possibilities of the case.
"It is not true, Willy," said she, speaking low, but fast and clearly. "Fanny never went back with Annie. We left her alone at the spring. I never thought of any danger, and I wanted to speak to Fanny, so I told Annie to wait at the spring and I would bring her some shells. Then Fanny and I went up on the hill and talked a little while, and I found a lot of snail shells. See, here they are now. When we came back, Annie was gone. I supposed, of course, she had gone home, and yet I felt a little uneasy, so I made Fanny go home, and told her to wave her handkerchief if it was all right. She did wave it, and I thought Annie was safe. Willy, she is lost in the woods; she has gone up on the mountain."
"Why do you think she has gone up?" asked Willy.
"Lost children always do," replied Sarah. "They always go up and up. * Don't stop to talk. Run home and tell them how it was, and bid them send for old John Steeprock and his dog directly. Tell them that it was my fault, but that I never thought of any danger, and that I am going to look for Annie myself."
* This is the general belief in mountainous countries. I do not vouch
for its truth.
"But you will be lost too," said Willy, divided between anger and admiration. "It is almost night, and you will lose your way, and perhaps die in the woods."
"Never mind me," returned Sarah. "I know the mountain pretty well, and sha'n't die for staying out one night in the woods. And if I should, nobody will miss me but Ally. Never mind me, but run home; only, Willy—"
Willy came back to hear.
"Tell Mrs. Lilly I stole the pie and I am sorry, and ask her, if anything happens to me, to be good to Ally."
And Sarah turned and went rapidly up the steep path.
Willy ran down toward the house and speedily entered the parlour, where Mr. Brandon was again trying to extract the truth from Fanny. Fanny now varied so far from her first story as to say that she only came with Annie to the fence and went back again.
"That is all stuff, Mr. Brandon," said Willy, unceremoniously bursting into the conversation. "Fanny never came with her an inch. She went up in the spruce woods with Sarah Leyman, and left Annie alone at the spring."
"How do you know, Willy?" asked Mrs. Lilly. "Who told you?"
"Sarah herself told me just now," replied Willy. And he repeated the conversation he had just held with Sarah, adding, "And, Grandma Lilly, she says she took that pie that day, and she is very sorry, and if anything happens to her, will you please be good to Ally?"
"Where is Sarah Leyman?" asked Mrs. Lilly.
"She has gone up on the mountain to look for Annie."
"Lord help her, what can she do?" said Mrs. Lilly. "She will only be lost herself."
"I don't know about that," said Willy; "Sarah knows the mountain pretty well. And oh, I forgot: Sarah says you must go up the mountain, because lost children always go up, and you must send for old John Steeprock and his dog directly."
"That is an excellent suggestion," said Mr. Brandon. "I did not know the old man was alive."
"He! He will live for ever, I believe," said Oney, speaking according to the common Indian belief, "unless he gets tired of it, and stops of his own accord. Suppose I jump on John Crane's horse and go after the old man myself. I can coax him round if he happens to be in one of his sulky fits."
"Do, Oney! Oh, Fanny, if you had only told us this at first, instead of lying so!" exclaimed Mrs. Lilly, wringing her hands. "Just see how much time we have lost by your wickedness!"
"I don't care. I'm sure it was not my fault that Sarah wanted to speak to me," replied Fanny. "And I should have told, only you told me not to play with Sarah. And I'm sure I couldn't help it, and I didn't mean to," cried Fanny, with a full burst of sobs. "It is all your fault, telling me not to play with her."
"Go up to your room and stay there," said Mrs. Lilly. "I wish you had never come into my house."
"I'm sure I didn't want to come," sobbed Fanny. "I wanted to go with my mother, and I always knew that you didn't know how to manage me."
Mrs. Lilly took Fanny by the man and led her to her own room. What happened there I have no means of knowing, but I very much suspect that Fanny got, as the nurses say, "something to cry for." If she did, it must be confessed that she got no more than her deserts.
In a very short time, Oney came back with John Steeprock, an old Indian of her own tribe, who had lived on the outskirts of the mountain time out of mind, and from his strength and activity seemed likely to live much longer. Steeprock listened to the story.
"Bad—bad!" said he, shaking his head. "S'pose fog come down, little girl maybe die. S'pose she full into hole—bad business!"
Mr. Brandon was about to speak, but Oney whispered to him, "Don't interrupt him; let him manage his own way. If you put him in a bad humour, you won't get any good of him. Let him go on his own way."
Old Steeprock ruminated for a minute in silence. Then he said, "You got little girl's shoe?"
Mrs. Cassell had bought a second pair of shoes for Annie, and she quickly produced them.
"Good!" said the old man, taking them in his hand. "Now we go up to the spring. You call the other boys."
The searching party were soon assembled at the spring. It was now nearly six o'clock, and a fine though cool evening. Steeprock looked about him, examined the ground carefully, and at last seemed to make up his mind.
"You let me be captain?" he asked.
"Yes, yes. Manage it your own way," said two or three of the men.
"Good!" returned the old man, evidently much gratified. "You all got guns or pistols?"
Three or four guns and revolvers were produced.
"Good!" said Steeprock, again. "Now, then, you Crane boys, go 'that' way; you Willsons, go 'that' way," indicating the direction with his finger. "If you find her alive, shoot three times; if dead, only once."
The men moved off, leaving Steeprock and Mr. Brandon by the spring. Steeprock called his dog, which was hunting about in the fallen leaves, talked to him in the Indian language, and held Annie's little shoe to his nose. The dog smelled it, wagged his tail, and began snuffing the ground, till, having found what he sought, he set off at a rapid pace up the path which Fanny and Sarah had taken.
CHAPTER X.
ON THE MOUNTAIN.
AND where was Annie all this time? Hurrying along toward the top of the great mountain as fast as her weary little legs could carry her, often stumbling and falling, now and then sitting down to rest and get her breath and cry for "grandma" and "Fanny," and then drying her tears and setting off again.
Annie had waited at the spring for what seemed a very long time, though in reality it was not more than twenty minutes. She had never been alone in the woods before. Indeed, she had never been in the woods at all, and she began to be a little scared at the loneliness, and at the kind of murmuring, whispering silence which prevailed around her.
She thought at first that she would go home, and then she reflected that perhaps grandma would not like it if she came home alone. She was not quite sure that she could climb the fence, and Sarah had said something, she did not know exactly what, about a bull. Then an odd fancy came into her silly little head. Mary Patterson, who was an English girl, had told her about the gypsies and how they stole children. What if that dark, wild-looking girl with the curly hair should be a gypsy, who had coaxed Fanny into the woods to do her some mischief?
"But I won't believe any such nonsense," said Annie, stoutly. "Fanny knew her before, and she was real good to me. I dare say she is looking for snail shells all the time. I wonder if there would be any harm in my going a little way up the path to see if they are coming?"
Annie hesitated a minute or two, and then she concluded to venture. She went a little way and then a little farther, and then she saw a very pretty sight—no less than a family of young squirrels at play on a fallen tree. She watched them for a few minutes, and then ventured a little nearer and a little nearer. Then she saw a beautiful flower, and thought she would get it for Uncle Hugh. She did so, and then all at once bethinking herself that the girls might come back and miss her, she turned round and hurried back toward the spring.
She walked on and on, wondering that she did not come to the place, and that she saw so many things which she had not noticed before. Meantime, the path, such as it was, grew narrower and rougher, till all at once Annie found herself at a spring, indeed, but not the one she had left nor at all like it. This spring boiled up in a little pool at the foot of a precipice so high that Annie could hardly see the top, and the rocks seemed just ready to fall on her head. In fact, many of them had already fallen, and lay round in wild confusion, while the earth between them was soft and boggy, so that Annie had wet her boots through and through before she was aware.
In the midst of the rocks and in the water lay a good many bones bleached and scattered. Annie did not know enough to perceive that they were the bones of a sheep or calf. She had a kind of horror of dry bones, and would never touch or go near one if she could help it, and she turned and hurried away out of sight of the place. She had the sense to see that this was not the spring she had left, and she thought she must return to that as quickly as possible.
So she turned and ran back again, taking, as she supposed, the same path, but she only involved herself in fresh difficulties. And at last, thoroughly bewildered, she sat down to rest and to think what she had better do. She looked round. The place was so entirely strange that it might almost have been in another world from that which the little girl had inhabited hitherto. Great black evergreen trees grew all around her, and the ground beneath was brown and slippery from the fallen spruce and hemlock needles. Great rocks peeped through the soil, or lay scattered upon it, as if they had at some time fallen from the sky.
Everything was very still, but as Annie listened she heard at a great distance, as it seemed, a strange wild scream and then another. It was the cry of the eagles which lived on the upper part of the mountain, but Annie did not know that. Gradually, as she sat there, the knowledge grew upon her that she did not know where she was, that she was lost—lost on the great mountain, where Sarah had warned her not to go on any account, where, as she knew, more than one person had been lost and never found again. Perhaps the bones were those of people who had strayed away before her, who had died all alone in the woods and had never even been buried.
That was a silly fancy, but Annie was only a very little girl, and older and wiser people have lost their heads on being lost in the woods. She burst into tears and called aloud for grandma and Uncle Hugh, but stopped suddenly, for somebody or something in the woods seemed mocking her, repeating the words over and over again, fainter and fainter every time. It was only the mountain echo, but Annie did not know anything about echoes. She was frightened at the sound; and starting to her feet, she ran away as fast as she could, which was not very fast, for the ground began to be very steep and rugged.
By this time, Annie was quite beside herself. She remembered that they had come up hill all the way to Mrs. Lilly's, and that grandma had told her before leaving home that morning that Mrs. Lilly lived on the mountain, and she reasoned in her confused little mind that if she could only climb high enough, she should find the old red house and grandma. So she climbed on, often falling and hurting herself, now getting on easily a little way, now stopping to rest. And once finding a bed of soft green moss, she lay down and slept for two or three hours, the deep, heavy sleep of exhaustion.
When she awoke, it was nearly dark in the woods, for the sun was below the mountain-top, though he still shone on the other side. Annie felt weak and exhausted, but her sleep had refreshed her, and after she remembered where she was and how she came there, she rose and struggled on.
At last she could go no farther, and it was well she could not, for she was now come into a very dangerous part of the mountain, where there were many deep holes and cracks, some of them partly filled with water. If she had fallen into one of them, she would probably never be found again either dead or alive, for the place had an ill name, and few even of the boldest hunters ever came near it.
Annie sat down on the ground in dumb despair, too wretched even to cry, too hopeless to make another effort. She sat on the ground, with her elbows on her knees and her hands supporting her chin, and thought about herself and her condition almost as if she had been another person. She was lost on the mountain like the poor hunter she had heard of; and, like him, she would most likely never be found again. She would die there in that lonely place and never go home, never see the new baby sister who had come since she left home, and never, never see papa and mamma any more.
She thought of her little cousin Grace Belden—how she had died in her crib in the safe, warm nursery, with mamma holding her hands and talking to her about heaven and the Lord Jesus. There would be nobody to hold her hand and talk to her when she was dying, nor to dress her body in soft white cashmere and lay it tenderly in the little white coffin, as they had done with Grace—nobody to take her to the church and read the funeral service, and sing a funeral hymn so softly and sweetly, as Mrs. Terry and her daughters had done for Grace. Perhaps the robins would cover her body with leaves, as they had done with the babes in the wood, and the angels would come and carry her away to heaven. She did not think she should be afraid of them if they looked like the picture which hung in mamma's room at home.
But oh, she did want to see mamma once more. She rose and tried to walk, but she sat down directly. One of her boots had come off, and she had so hurt her foot on the sharp stones that it bled. Besides, her head was dizzy, and a mist came over her eyes when she stood up. No; she must just sit still where she was, and perhaps somebody would come.
She had lighted on a place where she could sit down and lean her back against a rock. She had not climbed directly up, but rather in a slanting direction along the side of the mountain. Still, she had climbed very high—higher than any one would believe who did not know how fast and how far lost children will travel.
The wind blew cool, and Annie was thinly dressed, for it had been a warm day, and nobody had expected her to be out in the evening. The cold and fatigue made her drowsy, and she was almost asleep, when she suddenly started to her feet. Had she dreamed it? Was it one of the voices which had mocked her in the woods and whispered in the tops of the trees, or had some one called her name? She listened intently. Yes, it was so.
"Annie! Annie Mercer!" rung out in a clear voice. "Annie, are you here?"
"Yes, oh yes!" called Annie, in a joyful tone. "Oh, do come!"
"I am coming. Keep still where you are. Don't stir!" called the voice again.
Annie stood like a statue, hardly breathing. She heard steps among the dry leaves, and in another moment, Sarah Leyman burst through the bushes and caught the child in her arms.
"You blessed, dear little thing, I have found you at last!" exclaimed Sarah, kissing Annie as if she would eat her up. "But how in the world did you ever come here? Were you scared at the spring?"
"I was very naughty," said Annie, penitently. "I ought to have minded, but I didn't. And I went up the hill to find you, and there I saw some squirrels. And I tried to go back, and then I came to a place where it was all wet, and there were bones," said Annie, in a terrified whisper. "I thought they were the bones of people who had been lost; were they?"
"Oh no," said Sarah; "they were the bones of some animal which had fallen off the rocks. Well, what then?"
"Then I knew that I was lost, and I tried to find my way, and I couldn't, and when I came up here I couldn't get any further, and so I sat down."
"And a very good thing you did," said Sarah. "But who would have thought of your getting so far?"
"How did you find me?" asked Annie.
"That's more than I can tell you, Annie. I followed your track pretty well to the green spring, and then it was pretty much all chance or something else—I don't know what. I could see that you had started to go up the hill, and I kept on after you, till by and by I found the place where you lay down and left your hat. See, here it is. Then I knew I was right so far, and I don't know why, but I felt sure you had come up here." And Sarah kissed Annie once more.
"It was very good in you to come and find me," said Annie, returning the kiss. "I thought I should die all alone, and nobody would know where I was, nor bury me, nor anything," she continued, piteously. "And when I called, something kept mocking me, and whispering in the trees overhead."
"That was only the echo and the wind in the trees," replied Sarah. "It could not hurt you."
"I didn't know that," said Annie; "it made me afraid. Won't you take me home to grandma?"
Sarah's face darkened. She compressed her lips and looked round her. It was now dark, and though the moon was risen, she gave them but little light.
"Why, there's the trouble, Annie," said she. "I don't see how we are to get home to-night."
"But I must go home," said the little girl, her wide blue eyes full of terror. "I can't stay out in the woods all night. Oh, please, please, do take me home to grandma!" wailed the poor child, in piteous tones. "It is so dreadful up here, and I want to go to my own little bed."
Sarah sat down and took Annie on her lap, holding her fast, for the poor child was so horrified at the thought of staying out all night that she had started to run away.
"Annie dear, listen to me," said she, kindly but firmly. "Stop crying, and sit still and try to listen and understand."
Annie was a docile little thing, and she had always been taught to mind. She stopped struggling, sat still, and presently checked her sobs and looked up in Sarah's face.
"I am good now," said she. "Won't you take me home?"
"I want to tell you about it," said Sarah, still holding her. "I should like to take you home and to go home myself. I don't want to stay out in the woods any more than you do. But you see it is quite dark, only the moon shines a little. There are a great many dangerous holes and precipices round here. And if we should try to go down the mountain in the dark, we should most likely fall and be killed, and then we should never see grandma any more. I don't see but we must stay here till morning, and then we will go down."
"But we haven't any beds nor any supper," objected Annie. "And I am so hungry, I don't know what to do."
Sarah put her hand into her pocket and brought out two ginger cakes which she had brought from home.
"Here is some supper for you," said she; "and as for beds, we must do the best we can. Sit still here and eat your cakes, and I will see what I can do. There! Don't be frightened; I am not going away," she said, in a soothing tone, as Annie threw her arms around her neck and clung to her. "I wouldn't leave you for anything."
Somewhat reassured and very hungry, Annie sat down and ate her cakes, while Sarah looked about among the rocks, where she presently found a little nook well enough suited to her purpose—a kind of recess or cave formed by two great slabs of stone, leaning one against the other.
"This will do," said she to herself; "now for a bed."
She dared not go far away to seek materials, but she broke off all the evergreen boughs within reach, and arranged them into a couch, spreading her own apron over them.
"There! That is the best that I can do," said she, returning to Annie's side. "It is no great thing of a bed, but it is better than nothing. Now let me loosen your clothes, and you shall lie down and sleep like a little kitten, and I will watch by you. Don't be afraid. I don't think anything will come near us."
"And will you hear me say my prayers?" asked Annie. "Grandma always does, or mamma when I am at home. Oh dear! What would mamma say if she could see where I am?"
"I am very glad she does not," was Sarah's thought. But she only said, "Yes, dear, I will hear you say your prayers."
Annie knelt down and repeated her simple prayer, ending, as usual, with, "God bless papa and mamma, grandmamma and all my friends, and dear little baby sister;" to which she added, "And bless Sarah because she came to find me, and please keep us safe, and let somebody come and find us pretty soon."
"Now lie down and let me cover you up warm," said Sarah, after a little silence. "I will sit down here close by you."
She laid Annie down as she spoke, and heaped the branches under her head, so as to make a pillow. Then she laid the child's jacket over her and put more branches over her feet.
"Thank you," said Annie. "May I say my evening hymn now?"