'I welly think that's Oliver o' Deaf Martha's dog,' excitedly
cried Malachi. 'Surely he's noan poachin' a neet like this? He's
terrible lat' wi' his wark if he is.'

'If I'm not mistaken, that is Moses Fletcher's voice,' replied Mr.
Penrose. 'Listen!'

'You're reet; that's Moses' voice, or I'm a Jew. What's he doin'
aat a neet like this, wi' Oliver's dog? I thought he'd bed enough
o' that beast to last his lifetime.'

The two men were now leaning over a stone wall and looking down
into the ravine below. Suddenly Malachi pricked up his ears, and
said:

'An' that's Amos's voice an' all. By Guy, if it hedn't bin for
Oliver o' Deaf Martha's I should ha' said it wur hevin' a
prayer-meetin' i' th' snow. What's brought owd Amos aat wi'
Moses--to say naught o' th' dog?'

Just then an oath reached the ears of the listening men.

'No prayer-meeting, Malachi,' said Mr. Penrose, laughing.

'Nowe--nobbud unless they're like Ab' o' th' Heights, who awlus
swore a bit i' his prayers, because, as he said, swearin' wur
mighty powerful. But him as swore just naa is Oliver hissel--I'll
lay mi Sunday hat on't.'

By this time the moving figures on the snow were approaching the
foot of the hill whereon the two men stood, and Malachi, raising
his hands to his mouth, greeted them with a loud halloo.

Immediately there came a reply. It was from Oliver himself, in a
loud, importuning voice:

'Han yo' fun him?'

'Fun who?' asked Malachi.

'Why, that chilt o' mine! Who didsto think we wur lookin' for?'

'Who knew yo' were lookin' for aught but--'

'Which child have you lost?' cried Mr. Penrose, for Oliver had a
numerous family.

'Little Billy--him as Moses pooled aat o' the lodge.'

'Come along, Malachi, let us go down and help; it's a search
party.'

* * * * *

Everybody in Rehoboth knew little Billy o' Oliver's o' Deaf
Martha's. He was a smart lad of eight years, with a vivid
imagination and an active brain. His childish idealism, however,
found little food in the squalid cottage in which he dragged out
his semi-civilized existence; but among the hills he was at home,
and there he roamed, to find in their fastnesses a region of
romance, and in their gullies and cloughs the grottoes and falls
that to him were a veritable fairy realm. Child as he was, in the
summer months he roamed the shady plantations, and sailed his chip
and paper boats down their brawling streams, feeding on the nuts