look up to
the sky.

And what were these words he was beginning to faintly remember? Had not
the circuit-rider said in his last sermon that not even a sparrow falls
to the ground unmarked of God? There was a definite strength in this
suggestion. He felt less lonely as he stared resolutely at the big blue
sky. There came into his heart a sense of encouragement, of hope.

He would keep up as long and as bravely as he could, and if the worst
should come,--was he indeed so solitary? He would hold in remembrance
the sparrow's fall.

He had so nerved himself to meet his fate that he thought it was a fancy
when he heard a distant step. But it did not die away, it grew more and
more distinct,--a shambling step, that curiously stopped at intervals
and kicked the fallen leaves.

He sought to call out, but he seemed to have lost his voice. Not a sound
issued from his thickened tongue and his dry throat. The step came
nearer. It would presently pass. With a mighty effort Ethan sent forth a
wild, hoarse cry.

The rocks reverberated it, the wind carried it far, and certainly there
was an echo of its despair and terror in a shrill scream set up on the
verge of the crag. Then Ethan heard the shambling step scampering off
very fast indeed.

The truth flashed upon him. It was some child, passing on an
unimaginable errand through the deep woods, frightened by his sudden
cry.

"Stop, bubby!" he shouted; "stop a minute! It's Ethan Tynes that's
callin' of ye. Stop a minute, bubby!"

The step paused at a safe distance, and the shrill pipe of a little boy
demanded, "Whar is ye, Ethan Tynes?"

"I'm down hyar on the ledge o' the bluff. Who air ye ennyhow?"

"George Birt," promptly replied the little boy. "What air ye doin' down
thar? I thought it war Satan a-callin' of me. I never seen nobody."

"I kem down hyar on vines arter a tur-r-key I shot. The vines bruk, an'
I hev got no way ter git up agin. I want ye ter go ter yer mother's
house, an' tell yer brother Pete ter bring a rope hyar fur me ter climb
up by."

Ethan expected to hear the shambling step going away with a celerity
proportionate to the importance of the errand. On the contrary, the step
was approaching the crag.

A moment of suspense, and there appeared among the jagged ends of the
broken vines a small red head, a deeply freckled face, and a pair of
sharp, eager blue eyes. George Birt had carefully laid himself down on
his stomach, only protruding his head beyon