The rushing of the brook wakened Laura, and she gazed about her; slowly and dimly the sense of where she was came upon her, and she resolved that she would stay in bed. There was no nurse to dress her, no elegant toilet arrangements such as she was always in the habit of using: a little earthenware bowl and jug in the place of her luxurious bath, a good coarse towel instead of the snowy damask linen, and over the foot of the bed a common print dress and a checked apron, both spotlessly clean, had been placed. She looked at them and buried her face in her pillow. The Motherkin called her in vain. After waiting a long while, she came up to her.

"Why are you not out of bed, my child?" she asked, most kindly. "It is a bright, clear morning. Are you not well?"

Laura said nothing; ashamed of her own sulkiness, she yet was not prepared to acknowledge it.

"Come, shall I help you dress? Do you need assistance?"

Still no reply.

"Ah, what a pity you are ill!" said the Motherkin. "I had some nice chocolate ready for your breakfast, but I will have to go make some gruel. Poor child! poor child!" And away she went, leaving Laura with her head still buried in her pillow. In a short time she returned, bearing a large cup of gruel and a slice of bread, which she placed beside Laura. Then she bathed the child's face and brushed her hair, Laura submitting in silence. When she had rearranged the bed and made it comfortable, she kissed her and left her.

After a while Laura tasted the gruel, making faces over it; but she emptied the cup. In the same way the bread disappeared; and then, getting very tired of lying in bed, she rose and went to the window.

What a day it was! so sunny and bright! And how merrily ran the brook, and how she longed to see its drops sparkle between her fingers as they had done the day before! How velvety and soft was the grass, how yellow the buttercups! and she was sure she saw a humming-bird dipping down into the flowers in the Motherkin's garden.

A new idea came to her. Why not dress and get out of the window, underneath which was a shed, and so drop down into the garden? The clothes were slipped on hurriedly; her little fingers were so eager that the buttons went in and out of their holes again. Then softly on tiptoe she scrambled out. Her skirts caught, her fingers were scratched, the skin was peeled from a spot on one little knee; but, ah! how delicious this liberty! Her feet no sooner touched the earth than she ran swiftly to the brook, and the shoes and stockings were left to themselves while she waded in the clear, cool water. It was such an unknown delight, such happiness, that Laura forgot she was Laura and might have been any little wood-bird. Out of the brook and on to the grass, off the grass and into the woods. Flowers were here, and she gathered her hands and apron full; berries, too—sweet, red, wild strawberries, with a perfume so rare, so aromatic. She stained her fingers and stained her lips. Hark! what was that? A rabbit, and down went flowers and berries for a hunt over the stones and briers. Heeding nothing, she went after Bunny, who suddenly popped into his burrow with a whisk of his little tail and a kick of his little legs for good-bye. Then a loud chattering made her aware of Mr. Squirrel's presence, and she watched him jumping from bough to bough. Wondering if he would come to her if she kept very still, she sat so motionless that by-and-by her little head began to nod, and, wearied with her unusual exercise, she fell fast asleep leaning against a tree.

When she awoke she was still in the same posture; but her knee smarted, her legs were stiff, and she was very hungry. Besides, she knew not which way to turn. She was lost—or thought herself so, which was nearly as bad.

After all, it would be nice to see the Motherkin's kind face and hear her pleasant voice. But how should she explain her naughtiness, her make-believe sickness; and how, above all, should she find her way back? A few tears of repentance and real sorrow rained down awhile, and then Laura, who was no coward, made up her mind that she would tell the Motherkin the truth, and that she was sorry and would try to do better.

A rustling in the bushes startled her, but she hoped it might be Grim. It was not, however; but it was one of the Motherkin's pigs; and, knowing that Monsieur Piggie had to go home some time or other, she thought the safest course would be to follow him.

Alas! Mr. Pig was no gallant; he had not even common courtesy. He did not so much as grunt agreeably, but squealed in the most piggish manner; for he, too, was hungry, and he led poor Laura right through a swamp, covering her with mud.

As they emerged from the swamp, Laura thought she saw the cottage far away under the hill before them; and as Piggie ran squealing on, she kept up the pursuit. Into the woods again and out through the bushes, till a nice hedge showed they were near home; and now Mr. Piggie ran off to his sty, and Laura, creeping through the hedge and up the garden-walk with downcast face, went up to the open door, longing to throw herself into the Motherkin's arms and ask her pardon for all her bad behavior.

No one was to be seen. Not a sound came from the cottage. The door stood open, and on the table was a loaf of brown bread and a pitcher of milk.

Laura knew not what to do. She was ravenously hungry, but she was in too dirty a condition to touch food. She looked in and out and around, but no one was there. She mounted the ladder in hopes yet of finding the Motherkin. Her room was as she had left it, with the exception of a note pinned on the muslin curtain of the window. It read thus:

This was all the note said, except that "The Motherkin" was written underneath as signature.