MMEANWHILE the stray birdling had been missed from the home-nest, and great was the trouble and alarm there. Nurse, coming in, found Maggie at the head of the stairs with a discontented face.

"What's happened ye?" she asked; "and what are ye standing here in the draught for? Go back to the nursery, my honey."

"I can't find Bessie," said Maggie. "I went to sleep, and when I woke up, she was gone, and Flossy was gone too, and I looked all over, and they are not here."

"She hasn't taken wings, and flown away," said nurse. "You mind baby a moment, and I'll hunt her up for you."

Nurse hunted in vain, and at last told Maggie she thought Bessie must have found her way into the parlor, where the ladies were talking. "She'll soon tire of it, and come back to you," she said; "but it was not like her to go off and leave you."

But the time passed on; Jane came in with Franky; the children's dinner-bell rang, and still Bessie did not come. At last the ladies of the committee went away, and mamma came out of the parlor, but no little girl was with her. Then the whole house was searched, up-stairs and down, from cellar to attic; but the pet was not found.

"Could her grandmamma or aunt or Mrs. Rush have come and taken her out?" said Jane.

"They would not be so thoughtless; they would know I should be anxious if they left no word," said Mrs. Bradford, who was growing very much alarmed.

"No one came in; for I did not have my eyes off the front-door while I was out on the sidewalk," said nurse. "Yes, I did, too, just a couple of minutes while I spoke to Miss Hall; but no one could have come in and gone out, too, without my seeing them."

Ah, nurse, nurse, it was just those two minutes when you forgot your duty, which did all the mischief.

"And there's her hat," said Jane, looking in the box. "Ah, there's her garden hat and sack gone. Now maybe she's just run out after you, nurse, and somebody's caught her and run away with her when you wasn't looking. I've heard of such things, and how they make 'em beg, and beat 'em and frighten 'em so they don't dare tell where they belong."

This was very pleasant for the poor anxious mother, who, however, told Jane that was nonsense; while nurse, who knew she was to blame in letting her attention be called off, grew very angry and scolded Jane, saying she must have seen Bessie if she left the house.

Nevertheless, Bessie was certainly not in the house; and one servant was sent to grandmamma's, another to the hotel, to see if any trace could be found of the missing treasure; while Mrs. Bradford herself ran to all the neighbors, and poor Maggie stood by the window crying bitterly for her lost sister. In a little time grandmamma and Aunt Annie were on the spot, as anxious as the rest, to see if they could help in the search. As people were running in all directions, it seemed to grandmamma that the best thing she could do was to comfort poor, distressed Maggie. But Maggie was not to be comforted, and declared that she knew she should never, never, never see Bessie again. "Oh, I am so very sorry I went to sleep," she sobbed. "I just expect she went to heaven in a chariot of fire when no one was looking." Grandmamma could not smile at Maggie's strange idea, she was so anxious herself, but she told her this could not be so; and that Bessie had probably run out in the street and so lost her way.

"But Bessie would not do such a thing, grandmamma; she would know mamma would not like it, and she never disobeys her."

"Perhaps your mother never told her she was not to go out alone, dear, and so she was tempted to run a few steps, and then could not find her way back."

"Oh, no, indeed, grandmamma. Bessie knew quite well mamma would not wish us to go alone even if she did not say so; and she would think it was just the same; and Bessie never falls into temptation except about passions. If it was me, maybe I might; and I know she'll never come back; and oh, I cannot do without her, we are so very intimate, grandmamma."

Grandmamma said she was almost sure Bessie would soon be found, and told Maggie how well everything was arranged at the police-stations, so that if a little child was lost, it could soon be restored to its friends. Still Maggie only shook her head sorrowfully, feeling it quite impossible to believe that Bessie had gone away of her own free will.

Then Mrs. Bradford came in, looking very pale and troubled, for she could hear nothing of her lost baby; but a moment after, Patrick came with news. The policeman at the corner told how he had helped a little girl over the crossing, and seen her safe in the hotel and that she had said she was going to see the colonel; but that he could tell nothing farther. Patrick had gone to the colonel's rooms, but they were closed and locked; and he heard that the colonel and Mrs. Rush had been out for a long while.

Hearing this, Mrs. Bradford and her sister went round to the hotel, and giving the alarm, the great building was searched from top to bottom. Every room and closet, every hall and corridor, even the roof, and the cellar far underground where the gas was made, were looked through; but still no Bessie. But when the servants were questioned, the woman who had spoken to Bessie told how she had come to the colonel's room, and then walked off.

"She has probably wandered out again, madam," was said to the pale mother by one of the gentlemen who had been helping in the search; "and now you had better at once send to the police-station, and give notice of her loss."

As Mrs. Bradford was leaving the hotel to do this, the colonel and Mrs. Rush drove up. In two minutes they had heard all that was known, and the colonel said he would himself go to the station.

The station to which Bessie had been taken was not the one nearest to Mr. Bradford's house; and it was to the latter that the colonel drove first. He did not find his lost pet there, of course; but he heard that a telegram had come sometime since, saying that a stray child was at the station in —— Street, and there he went as fast as his horse's feet could carry him.

We left the little girl who had caused all this commotion sitting upon the knee of the kind sergeant of police, while he coaxed her to tell him the story of her troubles, in the hope that he might find out where she belonged.

"You don't look big enough for such a many troubles," he said; "now let's hear about them, and see what we can do. What was the first one?"

"First Maggie had a earache and cried; and then mamma had a committee, and had to leave us; and then I could not find nurse, and Flossy yan away," said Bessie; and the poor child began to cry again at the thought of Flossy.

"And who is Flossy?" asked the sergeant.

"He is our puppy that Donald gave us,—Maggie's and mine."

"And who is Maggie?"

"My own sister; don't you know that?"

"Indeed, I did not," said the policeman. "What is her name?"

"Maggie Stanton Byadford," said the child.

"And what is yours?"

"Bessie Yush Byadford."

The policeman shook his head; still he could make nothing of the name.

"And when Flossy ran away, you ran after him, did you?" he asked.

"Yes, but I didn't mean to, sir; I forgot mamma wouldn't want me to, and Flossy yan so fast. He went 'way over the long crossing, and our policeman was not there."

"Who's your policeman?"

"I don't know his name, only he helps us over the long crossing, when we want to go to the hotel."

"Ho, ho, I think we are coming at it," said the sergeant. "What hotel is that?"

"Why, the hotel where the colonel lives," said Bessie, as if there could be but one hotel and one colonel. "I thought mamma would not like me to go home by myself, and I asked that other policeman whom I did not know to take me over, so I could go ask the colonel to send me home. But he was out, and a woman scolded me, and so I went away, and the crossing wouldn't come, and the boys were naughty and yude, and Flossy's gone—oh, dear! oh, dear! I do want my own house and my own mamma; and everybody said naughty things about mamma."

"There, then, don't cry any more," said the policeman. "I think that must be the hotel, and you can't tell me what street you live in?"

"Why, yes, I can," said Bessie, who quite forgot that she had not been able to tell where she lived while she had been so frightened. "I live in papa's house in —— Street, Number ——, and I want to go home so much."

"So you shall, right off, now that you have told me where you belong," said the policeman. "I'll send, and see if you are right."

But just as he turned to speak to one of the men, an open carriage drove quickly to the door. Bessie looked around, then gave a scream of joy.

"Oh, it's my soldier, my own dear soldier! He came and found me—oh, he did, he did!"

In less time than it would have been thought possible, the colonel had been helped out, and was within the room. Bessie almost sprang out of the policeman's arms, and clung about the colonel's neck, while he, dropping one crutch, steadied himself on the other, and held her fast with the arm that was free. It was touching to see, as, half laughing, half crying, she poured out broken words of love and joy, now covering his face with kisses, now burying her own on his shoulder, then lifting it again to lay her soft cheek to his and pat it with her tiny hand. Colonel Rush was almost as much overjoyed as she, but he was in haste to carry the recovered treasure to her anxious mother. Nor was Bessie in less haste to be at home; but for all that, she did not forget to speak her thanks to those who had been kind to her, going from one to another, and shaking hands with them in her own polite little way. The sergeant carried her out and put her in the carriage.

"Good-by," she said, giving him her hand, "I am very much obliged to you for letting me come in your nice station-house, and for speaking so kind to me."

"Bless your heart," said the man, "if it wasn't for your own sake, I'd be sorry enough to part with you. Now don't you go and lose yourself again."

"I did not lose myself," said Bessie; "I just came lost, I did not mean to do it."

"I don't believe you did," said the man; "good-by to you."

Then the colonel put something into his hand, and they drove home as fast as possible. Oh, what joy there was over the little darling who had been so long away! Mamma held her fast and cried over her; it seemed as if she could never let her go out of her arms again; Maggie jumped about and clapped her hands, and kissed Bessie's face, hands, dress, and even her feet; Franky did as he saw Maggie do, saying, "Bessie tome, all nice now." Grandmamma, Aunt Annie, and Mrs. Rush were quite as much rejoiced, and the very servants had to take part in the welcome. Even the new cook, whom the children scarcely knew, had to come in for a peep at the dear little cause of all this excitement. Then papa, who had been sent for, that he might help in the search for his lost daughter, came home to find the sorrowing changed into rejoicing, and Bessie running to the front-door to meet him, saying,—

"I am quite found papa. I asked our Father to let you find me, and he sent the colonel instead, but that was just as good when he brought me home; wasn't it?"

"Quite as good, perhaps even better, darling, since dear mamma was spared another hour of anxiety, and you one of waiting. Our heavenly Father often does better for us than we ask, although we may not always know it."

"And you don't think I was naughty; do you, papa? Mamma does not."

"I must hear the story first; but now let me thank our good, kind colonel, who has put himself to some trouble I am sure, to find you."

When Mr. Bradford had heard Bessie's story, which she told in her own straightforward way, he satisfied her by saying that he did not think her in the least naughty, since he was sure she had not meant to disobey. He would not consent that grandmamma and Aunt Annie, and Colonel and Mrs. Rush should go home to dinner; they must all stay and have a great jubilee over the happy ending to Bessie's adventures. And oh, such a pleasure! The children were allowed to take dinner with the grown people, a treat which was only granted on great occasions.

"It's just like the man in the Bible, who lost his sheep and found it, and called all his friends to come and be glad, and have a nice time with him," said Maggie, "only we're a great deal more glad than that man, because our Bessie is a great deal better than the sheep, and we don't have ninety and nine, either."

"No," said papa, "we have only one Bessie and one Maggie, and a very good Maggie and Bessie they are of their kind. I would not change them for any others that could be offered to me. How is the ear, Maggie?"

"Oh, it's 'most well, papa. When I felt so bad about Bessie, I forgot about it, and when I was so glad, the pain just went away before I knew it."

"So the greater trouble cured the lesser, eh?"

"But, papa," said Bessie, "we have a great, great trouble with all our happiness. You know Flossy is quite lost, and we'll never have him to play with again."

"I am not sure about that," said Mr. Bradford; "I shall go to-morrow and see what I can do to find him. Still I have not much hope, and you must not think too much about it."

"You mean you will do all you can, papa," said Bessie, sorrowfully, "but probaly we will never see our dear Flossy again."

"Never mind, Bessie," said Maggie, tenderly; "it is not very much matter if we don't. We have you back again, so we've no reason to complain."

Dear, generous-hearted little Maggie! She would not say how badly she felt about Flossy, lest Bessie should think she blamed her for his loss, but it was a great trial to her, as her father knew. She was more fond of him than Bessie was, and Flossy cared more for her than he did for any one else. Never were two merrier playfellows, and their droll antics and frolics were a source of great amusement to the whole family. And now he was gone, perhaps never to come back; and Maggie's little heart was very sore, though she said nothing of her grief. Thoughtless she often was, but never where Bessie was concerned; she never forgot her little sister's happiness or comfort, and would bear anything herself if so she might keep harm or trouble from Bessie. Her father knew this, and why she spoke as if she did not care much about Flossy, and he loved her the better for it, for he saw that it was hard work for her to keep back the tears. He put his arm about her, and kissed her tenderly, as he began to talk of other things.

Quite late that night, when Mrs. Bradford went up-stairs, she heard a low sobbing from the room opening out of her own, where Maggie and Bessie slept, each in her own pretty little bed.

"What is it, my darling?" she asked, going in. "Is your ear feeling badly again?"

"Not so very, mamma," said Maggie, "but—please put your head down close, mamma, so Bessie wont wake up—I do feel so very, very badly about Flossy. If I knew somebody had him who would be kind to him, I think I could try to bear it, but I know they will hurt him and tease him, and he'll have such a hard time. I know he'll be homesick, too—oh, dear—and I can't go to sleep, 'cause I think so much about him, and I don't want Bessie to know it."

Mamma sat down on the bed and comforted Maggie, and then, holding her hand, began to tell her a story which she took care not to make too interesting, until presently the little hand which held her own loosened its grasp, and Maggie's regular breathing showed that she had forgotten her trouble.

All this made Mr. Bradford resolve that he would spare no pains to recover Flossy, and the next morning he went to the police-station, and asking the name and beat of the man who had brought in his little daughter, went in search of him. He was soon found, and told where he had met Bessie; but he had been able to learn nothing of the lost dog. Mr. Bradford inquired all about the neighborhood in vain; the boys whom he met either could not or would not answer his questions. He offered a reward to whoever could tell anything that would lead to the recovery of the dog, and when he went down town, put an advertisement in the papers saying the same thing.

But three days passed, and still no word came of Flossy. On the fourth morning, the family were all at breakfast, when Patrick, who was passing through the hall, heard a scratching and whining at the front-door. He hurried to open it, and Flossy rushed in, ran through the hall into the breakfast-room, and before any one had recovered from their first surprise, scrambled into Maggie's lap, buried his face under her arm, and lay trembling and whimpering with joy. Poor little fellow! he was in a sad state. His glossy silken coat was all matted and dirty; he looked thin and half-starved; his pretty red collar, with its brass lettering, was gone, and around his neck the hair was rubbed off, as if it had been worn by a rope, and his mouth was cut and bleeding. Papa said he thought he had been tied up, and in his struggles to free himself, had worn the hair from his neck, and cut his mouth with gnawing at the rope.

The children cried and laughed over him by turns, hugged and kissed him, and although it was against mamma's rules to feed him in the dining-room, begged that they might do it for this once. Permission was given, and then they wanted to stuff him with everything that was on the table; but mamma said they must be careful, or he would be sick, so a saucer of warm bread and milk was brought and put on the hearth, and glad enough the poor puppy was to have it. But he would not eat unless Maggie's hand was on him, and every now and then he would stop to look up in her face with a low whine, as if he wanted to tell her his pitiful story. Afterwards he was well washed, and then, wrapped in his blanket, went to sleep in Maggie's lap. He woke up quite refreshed, but for a day or two, did not care to play much, content to lie most of the time in Maggie's or Bessie's arms, or curled up in a ball in some comfortable corner. But after this long rest, and several good meals, to say nothing of a great amount of petting, he began to bark and act like himself, and was once more the bright, merry, affectionate plaything he had been before.

Where he had been, or how he had escaped from those who had treated him so cruelly, was never known, but every one thought it quite wonderful that so young a dog, and one who had been such a short time in the house, could have found his way home alone.