y from his own house it was his
intention to rouse the village and to ask all to join in the hunt for
the child, but a feeling of bitter resentment led him to change his
purpose. No; they would rejoice over his sorrow; they would give him
no aid, and, if they had had a hand in her taking off, they would do
what they could to baffle him in his search. Slight as was his hope,
he would push on alone.

"O'Hara and Hansell know all about it; I will search the neighborhood
of the path all the way to their cabin and then compel them to tell
what they know; if they refuse----"

He shut his lips tight and walked faster than ever. He strove to fight
back the tempestuous emotions that set his blood boiling. He was moved
by a resolve that would stop at nothing; he would not believe that
there was no hope; he knew he could force the miscreants to give up
their secret, and had a hair of his little sister's head been harmed
the punishment should be swift and terrible.

"When Dollie is found," he muttered, determined to believe she must be
restored to him, "I will send her and Aunt Maria away, and then have it
out with these fellows; I'll make them rue the day they began the
fight."

These were dreadful thoughts, but there was excuse for them, his grief
made him half frantic.

The path over which he believed Dollie had either strayed or been led
or carried, entered the woods about a hundred yards from the village
and gradually sloped and wound upward for a mile, when it passed the
door of Hugh O'Hara's cabin and lost itself in the solitude beyond.

The sky had cleared still more during the interval since he came down
the mountain side, and he could not only see the course clearly, but
could distinguish objects several rods away, when the shadow of the
overhanging trees did not shut out the light. But the season was so
far along that few leaves were left on the limbs and it was easy,
therefore, for him to keep the right course.

He had not gone far when he stopped and shouted the name of Dollie.
The sound reached a long way, and he repeated the call several times,
but only the dismal wind among the limbs gave answer.

Striding forward, he stood a few minutes later on the margin of the
creek that was spanned by the fallen tree.

"She would not have dared to walk over," was his thought: "she must
have been on this side, if she wandered off alone."

A moment later he added:

"No; for the very reason that it is dangerous,