THE WATER-HEN 
ever he was, snuffled on their trail, and she 
knew that if it were Tufoigin the Stoat they 
would have no chance of escape, but it might 
be a fox, and if so the hole would be too 
small for him to follow. The chick rustled 
the grass close at hand, and she clucked to him 
that he should lie still. She crouched down 
with a beating heart as the hunter stopped and 
snuffled at the wall. He gave a whimper, and 
a couple of impatient scrapes at the stones, but 
the thunder boomed overhead again, and be- 
thinking himself of the rain to come he 
trotted on. 
When the patter of his footsteps had died 
away, Cearc-uise called to her chick and set 
out steadily towards the river, guided, perhaps, 
by that strange instinct which leads the moor- 
hen so far afield through the darkness to new 
waters. But not thus had she crossed the 
meadows on the night when she had 
first come to the Dark Pool two 5 
months before, and all that night 
her instinct of self-preservation was 
at war with her mother-love, but in 
the end the latter won, and she 
regulated her pace and path to the 
feeble powers of the chick. 
A flash of lightning lit up the grass 
round them, and on its heels came a 
35 
