les.
Though she cannot understand what they say, she grasps the method of
the game, watching it with amused interest. They are such queer little
dusky creatures.

One boy among them especially attracts her attention. His face is
strangely European, and his features noticeably different to those of
his comrades. Yet his skin is dark and swarthy, there can be no
mistaking the black blood in his veins.

Now and again Eleanor fancies she catches an English exclamation from
his lips. She wishes she could join the children in their gambols, as
in her girlhood at Copthorne. But they eye her suspiciously and sidle
away when she approaches.

She wanders back disconsolately, wishing she knew more of the boy with
the European face.

That very day her wish is satisfied. It is late in the afternoon, and
Carol is still out. She is too blinded by love to resent his
selfishness in leaving her so much alone, and wanders down to the
river, singing from sheer lightness of heart.

She sees as she saunters along a trap set for a deer, and gives it a
wide berth as she passes.

It consists of a noose fastened to the top of a pliant tree, which is
bent down and pegged across a path leading down to the water. Thus it
serves to entrap prey on the way to drink.

She has scarcely gone a hundred yards when a shriek rends the air, and
turning simultaneously Eleanor sees a small boy trip over the noose,
which, released from the peg, flies back with the full force of the
tree, carrying him into the air with it.

She rushes up terror-stricken at the horrible sight. The screaming
child is suspended far above her head, the cruel thongs cutting deeply
into his flesh.

The sight puts energy and cat-like agility into her limbs. She climbs
the tree with all the daring of her orchard days, tearing great rents
in her dress, spurred on by the cries of the helpless victim. She
creeps on hands and knees along the willowly bough, upon which he hangs
till her weight combined with his brings the inevitable result. A
crack, a crash, and the two fall together to the ground. Unharmed
herself save for a few bruises and scratches, Eleanor releases the
unfortunate child, raising his bleeding body tenderly in her arms,
binding up the wounds with her handkerchief, and soothing his groans
with kisses.

"Oh! dear," she says, "I wish I knew where you lived, you poor little
darling."

To her intense surprise the boy replies:

"Up there," pointing