112 THE VEEEY MOTHER. 



with many pauses to study out the next step, 

 I progressed. The cry, often suppressed for 

 minutes at a time, was perceptibly nearer. The 

 bank was rougher than ever, but with one 

 scramble I was sure I could reach my prize. I 

 started carefully, when a cry rang out sudden 

 and sharp and close at hand. At that instant 

 the stone I had put faith in failed me basely and 

 rolled: one foot went in, a dead twig caught my 

 hair, part of my dress remained with the sharp 

 end of a broken branch, I came to one knee (but 

 not in a devotional spirit); I struck the ground 

 with one hand and a brier-bush with the other, 

 but I did not drop my glass, and I reached my 

 goal in a fashion. 



I paused to recover my breath and give that 

 youngster, who I was persuaded was laughing at 

 me all the time, a chance to lift up his voice 

 again. But he had subsided, while the mother 

 was earnest as ever. Perhaps I was too near, 

 or had scared him out of his wits by my sensa- 

 tional entry. While I was patiently studying 

 every twig on the tree from which the last cry 

 had come, the slight flutter of a leaf caught my 

 eye, and there stood the long-sought infant him- 

 self. 



He was a few feet below me. I could have 

 laid my hands upon him, but he did not appear 

 to see me, and stood like a statue while I studied 



