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.