“Yes, she was the daughter of one of the French squatters on that very lake we’ve fished this day. Susette they called her, and she was days in the woods. Out of this Laque de la Mort, they drew her body; but still, on dark nights, her spirit wanders as it wandered then, before she sought or found rest in the pool. ’Tis easy, sure. Take one of you men, even, and set you away from all the guide-marks we’ve made, you could not find your way save by some inherited instinct. We Indians, descendants of the forest men, get that instinct with our birth; even we who have lived among the white men all our days. That Anton yonder, though he has been housed under a roof ever since he was born, I warrant me he could be set in some unknown wilderness but would find a way out. Is it not so, Anton?” asked the half-breed story-teller, shading his eyes from the firelight to look at the boy.

An instant later he had risen and bent above Anton, who now cowered in his corner his head bent upon his knees and his whole attitude one of keen distress.“Lad, what’s amiss with you?”

Anton tossed off the kindly hand just laid upon his shoulder and raised a face that had grown haggard, with wild terrified eyes staring into the questioner’s face.

“’Tis a lie, no? There is no girl wanders the forest nights! You are fool, MerimÉe, with your words!”

“That’s as a man judges. Ghost tales were asked and told, and one is true. I know it. But fear not, lad. No spirit will molest to his harm one who rides through the wood aright, in the fear of God and with honesty in his heart. As for the ghost of poor Susette, hapless maid! Would not one with a spark of manhood in him seek to help her if he could? But alas! When one is dead, even living men with hearts of courage can avail nought. But, up. You’ve rested and supped. ’Tis time you were a-saddle and riding home to your duty. Up and away. Though the wood looks dark from here, ’tis because of our fire so bright. The stars are out and once away from this the road will seem light enough. As light as many another when you’re played truant to your master to wander in it. Up, and away!”

This MerimÉe, guide, was mostly a man of few words. Yet when, as now, his toil for the day was over and the campers gathered for an evening chat it flattered his vanity to be asked for the legends and traditions of the countryside. His tongue had been loosened and he used it thus liberally for the benefit of Anton, the mischievous, who “shamed his duty” as old MerimÉe always honored it. As he finished speaking he walked to the tree where the gray mare was fastened, slipped on its saddle, tightened its girth, and called:

“Ready, Anton!”

And, as if in echo, again floated through the air overhead a night-bird’s mournful cry and Anton shrieked, then sprang to his feet shivering with terror.

The men stared at him, astonished, and Monty ran to him, shook him, and demanded:

“Don’t you know better than that? Scare a fellow’s wits out of his head? That’s nothing but the same old bird that’s kept me awake—”

Melvin shouted in laughter, and the others echoed him.

“Kept you awake! Well, I’d like to know when? You that always go to sleep over your supper—if you’re allowed!”

Monty laughed, also, and the mirth around him seemed to restore Anton’s composure in a measure. But happening to glance toward Judge Breckenridge he saw that gentleman looking at him keenly and his guilty conscience awoke. In fact, the Judge was merely interested in watching the changes which fear wrought upon Anton’s healthy face and was growing impatient to have the lad start home. He knew how eagerly his sister would wait to read the letters he was returning her and to comply with his own brief instructions concerning them. He was a man who wished always to do at once anything he had to do; and nothing annoyed him more than others’ shilly-shallying. To his amazement, Anton begged him:

“Don’t! Don’t, sir, look at me like that! I didn’t go for to do it! She—she done it herself!”

“Who did what? Have you lost your common sense?”

Then it all came out, the whole miserable story; in broken sentences, with keenest regret now, unhappy Anton told of Molly’s following, of the trick he had played upon her, and of the fact that she was now wandering somewhere in that wild forest alone, save for old Queenie.

But the story was not ended before every member of that startled group was on his feet, ready for search and rescue. Though he could almost have killed the lad where he cowered, so furious was his wrath and terrible his fear, the Judge controlled himself and sternly ordered:

“With me you come, Anton. Close to me you keep and lead me to the last spot where you left my child. If we find her not—”

He did not need to finish his sentence with a threat, nor did he wait for the horse which MerimÉe made haste to catch and saddle. On foot he started, Anton held by an iron grasp, and they two were out of sight before the others had quite realized that they were even moving.

Old MerimÉe took charge without question; organizing his little company into bands of two and directing each pair to take a separate route through the woods, but all verging toward the east and the distant farmhouse. He arranged that all, carrying guns, should agree upon certain signals; one shot meant distress, two reports called for reinforcement by the nearest searchers; and three—or a succession of more—good news, that the work had happily ended and the word was: “Back to the camp!”

The old college president took Montmorency as his aide, with the clannish instinct of two New Englanders for one another’s company. Indeed, this odd pair had been almost constant companions since they entered the woods, and the lad had found the alert old man the “jolliest ‘boy’ he had ever chummed with.”

The surgeon called Melvin to share his own search and the merchant strode sturdily forward in the wake of MerimÉe, the guide; who delayed but long enough to cover the fire and to sling over his shoulder a hunting-horn. He had often used this for four-footed game, and might now as a call to the Judge’s lost daughter. Seeing MerimÉe do this sent Melvin also back to his tent, yet only for a moment. Then he ran after his partner and disappeared in the gloom of the forest.

Back at Farmer Grimm’s, when Molly rode out of the grounds, there had been none to see her go except one of the maids, drooping with sick-headache against the back porch. Even she had scarcely realized the fact, so absorbed was she by her own physical misery. There her mistress found her and promptly despatched her to her room and bed, until she should recover, and it was not till some hours later that she descended to find the house in a turmoil of search and anxiety. At dinner-time, Mrs. Hungerford had bidden Dorothy to call Molly; adding a warning word:

“Tell her, Dolly dear, that she must come at once. Too often she lingers and keeps Mrs. Grimm waiting. That isn’t right because this household is managed as systematically as your own Academy in school time. Be sure and tell her.”

“Yes, Auntie Lu, when I find her,” answered Dorothy, speeding out of doors, while the lady looked after her with more than ordinary interest; thinking: “What a dear, bonny creature that child is! And I am so glad, I hope so much for her now. I’m sure Schuyler will bid me go ahead and write, or will send a note to be forwarded. I can hardly wait for the outcome of the matter, but Dorothy must know nothing—nothing—until just the right moment. Then for the climax, and God grant it be a happy one!”

She sat down on the broad sill by the open window to wait for the girls, lost in her own happy thoughts, until Miss Greatorex came and asked:

“Did you know that dinner had been served some moments and is fast getting cold? It’s mutton to-day, and Mrs. Grimm is fretting that ‘mutton must be eaten hot to be good.’”“So late? I was musing over something—didn’t notice. Have the girls come in without my seeing them?”

“Neither of them.”

“That’s odd. By the way, when did you see Molly?”

“A few moments after breakfast, I think. I’ve been writing all morning at that further window and have scarcely looked out. Why?”

“She hasn’t been in and dearly as she loves riding I never knew her to keep on with it so long, unless she was off with the farmer. I sent Dolly to call her and now she delays, too.”

“Very well, I will find Dorothy!” said Miss Isobel, with an air of authority. She considered Mrs. Hungerford quite too indulgent to her niece and was all the more strict with her own especial charge for that reason. She now left the room with a firm step and was still wearing an air of discipline when she came upon Dorothy emerging from the stables. The child looked perplexed and a trifle frightened. She didn’t wait for her governess to upbraid her but began at once:

“Oh, dear Miss Isobel! I can’t find her anywhere! Nobody has seen her and Queenie isn’t in her stall. I’ve been to my corncrib, the garden, the long orchard all through, and yet she isn’t. Ah! There’s Mr. Grimm! He’s finished his dinner already and is going back to the hay-fields. Please excuse me, I’ll run ask him if he’s seen her.”

“Best not delay longer yourself, Dorothy—” called Miss Greatorex, but for once her charge did not pause at this tone of reproof; and a first, faint feeling of alarm rose in her own breast.

“Molly, lassie? No, indeed! I haven’t seen her to-day. I was off to work before she came down stairs, but I’ve been wishing for her and you, too, the livelong day. The wild-roses that you love are blooming wonderful. All my far-away meadows are hedged with them as perfect as if they’d been set out a-purpose. Miles of them, I fancy, are on this old farm; but little golden-haired Molly’s the sweetest wild-rose I’ve seen this summer. For you’re no wild rose, lassie. You’re one of those ‘cinnamons,’ home-keepers, close by the old house and that the Missus claims are the prettiest in all the world. So there’s a compliment for the pair of you! Wait till I whistle! Mistress Molly knows that it means: ‘Come! I’m waiting for your company!’ ’Twill fetch her, sure, if she’s within the sound of it.”

So he put his hands to his lips and whistled as only he could do, a long, musical note of call that reached far and wide and that the missing girl had often likened to the sound of Melvin’s bugle.

But there came no answer of Queenie’s footfalls over the gravel nor their soft thud-thud upon the grass, and the farmer felt he could delay no longer. Yet, could he go? While his little “comrade” was missing? Silly, to feel a moment’s alarm at such a trivial thing. A thoughtless lassie, sure she was, this little maid of the far-away southland; but oh! so “winsie.” No. Let the hay wait. He’d tarry a bit longer and be on hand to scold Fair-Hair when she came galloping back with a string of merry excuses tumbling off her nimble tongue, her ready “I forgots” or “I didn’t thinks”—the teasing, adorable witch that she was!

“Fetch me my pipe and my paper, Dorothy, girl. I’ll wait under this apple tree till she comes. But do you all get your dinners and not so many go hungry because one wild child loiters. A whisper! The missus is getting a trifle crisp, in the kitchen yon. She’s missing the nap that is due her as soon as her people are fed. Best make haste. It’s pleasanter for all on the Farm when Missus is left to go her gait regular, without hindrance from any. Go, little maid, and a blessing on you.”

So she ran and brought him his pipe and his paper, received a kiss for her pains, and left him on the bench under the apple-tree, idle because little Molly was idle—no better reason than that—though this was his busiest time and he a most busy man.

But Mrs. Hungerford could not eat, even though courtesy compelled her to table and to taste the good fare provided. Her want of appetite banished Miss Isobel’s, and though Dorothy was healthily hungry, as why shouldn’t she be? even she sent away her plate untouched, and was the first of the trio to put into words the dreadful fear that was in all their hearts:

“I can’t, I can’t eat! Something has happened to Molly! Something terrible has come to our Molly!”

That ended waiting. After that the farmer promptly summoned his men, the mistress her maids, and a thorough search of all the premises began. Over the old-fashioned well with its long sweep poor Aunt Lu hovered like a creature distraught.

That well had held a fascination for the novelty-loving Molly, in this case its age being the to her new thing. She had tried her own strength in lifting the great beam and lowering the bucket from its pole; and, perhaps, she had done so now and had fallen over the curb into the depths below!

In vain did the others tell her how almost impossible this would have been; she could not be dissuaded, and most earnestly begged the farmer to have someone search the well.

“No, no, dear madam. Not till we’ve tried other more likely spots first. The last time Molly was seen was on Queenie’s back. Well, then we have only to find the sorrel and we’ll find the child. Take comfort. That up-and-a-coming little lass isn’t down anybody’s well. Not she.”

There were many barns and outbuildings on that big farm; some new and modern, some old and disused. Not one was left unsearched. All work stopped. Haymakers and ploughmen left their fields to add their willing feet and keen eyes to the business, and up-garret, down cellar, through dairies, pantries, unused chambers, everywhere within doors the troubled housemistress led her own corps of searchers, and always without result. This had been a foregone conclusion yet she left nothing undone that might lead to the discovery of the missing girl; while the longer they sought the deeper the conviction grew in all those anxious hearts: “Molly is lost.”

It was the maid with the headache who furnished the first clue. Coming below after her hours of rest, she found the kitchen deserted, and all labor at a standstill. Hearing voices without she questioned the first she met and was told in faltering tones:

“The bonny little maid is—lost!”

“Lost? Where, then, is Anton?”

“Gone with a parcel to the far-away camp. The mistress sent him for Mrs. Hungerford.”

“Well, but, the maid was with him. That is she sought to be. I heard her call after him as he rode away and I thought her cries would split my aching head. He was galloping out of the far gate and she a-chase. They need not seek her hereabouts.”

Said the mistress, in vast relief:

“I might have known. I might have guessed. He a mischievous tease, she a wild, impulsive child.” Then she hurried to poor Auntie Lu, sitting disconsolate beside the well with Dorothy clasping her hand in her own small ones, trying to comfort as best she could, and exclaimed: “Fear no more! We should have thought at once the prank that madcap would be at! She saw Anton ride away to the camp and she has followed him. The maid who was ill remembers. She is safe with her father long before this. Come in by, now, come in and have a cup of tea. A cup of tea will set you up again like anything.”

Aunt Lu was greatly cheered but it took more than the other’s panacea of a “cup of tea” to banish all anxiety; yet in the hope that had been raised she passed the remainder of that dreadful day as calmly as she could and without burdening others with the fear which still lingered in her heart.

Upon his wife’s report the farmer left off prying into all the home places and saddled his fleetest horse. He sent all the men back to the fields to house the abandoned hay machines and rusting ploughs, and to attend the many duties of so great a farm. But he took one man with him and a “snack” of supper in their pockets. It would be a long ride there and back and a detour might be necessary. Wherever he found sign of the child’s wandering, should she by chance have lost the trail of Anton, whom she followed, he would keep to the signs and not the shortest route. Many a place there was, of course, where even the surest-footed horse could not travel, and only a foot passage be made with difficulty.

But he rode round to Auntie Lu, now coaxed within doors to an open window, and cheerily bade her:

“Keep stout heart, my woman dear. When you see my grizzled face again you shall see your Molly’s bonny one beside it. I’m a Grimm. I mean it.”

Then he bared his gray head, settled himself firmly in his saddle, called to his man: “Come on!” and rode as gallantly to the rescue as if his seventy winters had been no more than seventeen.

All this time where was Molly?

When she found that Anton had disappeared from that open spot in the forest she was at first terrified then comforted.

“Why, I reckon this must be mighty near that camp, after all. It’s ’most clear of the little trees and bushes, like some of the farm-groves that anybody can play in and not be scared or—or get their dresses torn. Queenie, you and I can rest a few minutes. Somehow I’m dreadful tired. I rode such a lot all morning and now away out here after that Anton. He’s mean. He surely is dreadful ornery. When I see him again I’ll just hold my head mighty high and take no notice. Indians aren’t much better than negroes, I reckon. Anyhow he isn’t half so nice. Catch one of our black ‘boys’ treating ‘little missy’ so! You hungry, too, Queenie? Well, you’re luckier than I for you can get your dinner off the ground. Go ahead and nibble it. I’ll wait for you;” she said, talking to the sorrel as if she were human and could understand, and slipping from her saddle to the ground.

After a moment’s contemplation of the lovely place, where a little stream ran trickling and babbling over stones, and where the ferns were high as her head, looking to her like miniature trees themselves, she began to feel almost contented. Open places between the pines let the sunlight through and, where it fell, the wild roses which creep everywhere over that fair land had forced themselves into a home and bloomed away most bravely. Then she espied a scarlet patch of color underneath and found that they were the wild strawberries she loved so well. She cried, scrambling after these:

“Ah! Queenie! You’re not the only one can get something to eat away out here in the woods. I suppose that’s the kind of stream Papa fishes for trout. If I had a line and a hook and—and whatever I needed I could fish, too. But I wouldn’t. I never would like to kill anything, though a trout that somebody else had killed would make a mighty nice dinner right now.”

The berries were plenty, and “enough” of anything is “as good as a feast.” At least they satisfied her immediate hunger as the water from the brook, caught in a little cup made of a big leaf, satisfied her thirst. Queenie slaked her own thirst at the same pool and was so quiet and content that she greatly helped to cheer her small companion.

Finally Molly remembered a maxim she had once taught Dorothy:

“When you’re lost, stay right still in that spot till somebody comes and finds you.” Not always the safest judgment, it may be, but consoling then to this small girl.

Then she continued to converse with the sorrel mare; assuring that calm creature:

“That boy went away out of here, some place, and to go home again he’ll have to come away back. That’s plain enough. Now, you and I are real safe, Queenie, really perfectly safe; if some them mooses or caribous, or deers, or—or things—Let’s not think about them, Queenie. Let’s just wait. Let’s—let’s take a nap if we can, to make the time pass till—till Anton comes.”

She wished she hadn’t happened to think of any “wild beasts” just then and she was astonished to see Queenie take her advice so literally; for down upon that mossy ground dropped the sorrel, did its utmost to work the saddle off its back, and, failing in this, stretched itself on its side and did go to sleep.

Then for a time Molly busied herself in gathering flowers, wherever she caught sight of one, and, thrusting them into her blouse, told Queenie that “these are for that terrible flowery girl, Dorothy C. Oh! I wonder what she is doing now! If she isn’t scraping away on that old fiddle I’ll bet she’s missing me. ’Tisn’t polite for girls to ‘bet,’ Auntie Lu says. Oh! I wish I could see her now. Funny I should be so lonesome, right in the daylight with Queenie here. If I don’t look out I’ll be crying; for I’m getting that awful scared way I was when Anton first went. I’ll lie down too on that pile of ferns and go to sleep—if I can. I hope there aren’t any wigglers of any sort to get into my ears. I’ll put my handkerchief over them and my face on that. Let’s play pretend it’s bedtime, Queenie. Good night.”

There was no response from the weary old horse who had jogged about nearly all that day and Molly waited for none. A merciful drowsiness stole upon her and when she woke again the night was really there. Through the scattered tree-tops she could see the stars shining; close at her feet was the same gentle purring of the little stream, and overhead the soft rustle of pine needles moving lightly in the breeze. But what had wakened her? Something had, she knew. Some sound other than that of the brook or the pines. Queenie too, had heard. She had got to her feet and was listening, was whinnying, as in no fear of whatever thing it was. Molly could dimly see the old horse against the background of gloom but her presence was vast comfort.

Hark! HARK!!

Molly was on her feet now, wider awake than in all her life before, hands clasped to her breast, head bent forward, listening—listening—listening.

“Toot! Toot! Tooty-ti-tooty-ti-toot!”

“A bugle! A bugle! The ‘Assembly!’ First call to meals! Melvin’s coming! Melvin—MELVIN!”

Nearer and nearer it came. It was at hand. On the other side the murmuring stream. On this side. In her very ears; and screaming “Melvin!” with all the agony of fear that she had pent within her brave heart, Molly fell sobbing in the “Bashful Bugler’s” arms.

A few minutes later she was in her father’s; and not long thereafter sat upon his knee before the camp-fire with her head upon his breast and he clasping her close, close in an embrace that held within it almost an agony of joy, so fierce it was.