small
considerations. But not to be able to stir a step to find the baby, to
feel that Flower was carrying the baby farther and farther away, and
that Polly's chance of ever seeing her again was growing less and less,
became at last a thought of such agony that the poor little girl could
scarcely keep from screaming aloud.

"And it was all my fault!" she moaned. "I forgot what father said about
climbing the highest mountain. When David came to me, and told me that
Flower was subject to those awful passions, I forgot all about my
mountain-climbing. I did not recognize that I had come to a dangerous
bit, so that I wanted the ropes of prayer and the memory of mother to
pull me over it. No, I did nothing but rejoice in the knowledge that I
didn't much like Flower, and that I was very, very glad to tease her.
Now I am punished. Oh, oh, what shall I do? Oh, if baby is lost! If baby
dies, I shall die too! Oh, I think I'm the most miserable girl in all
the world! What shall I do? Why did mother go away? Why did Flower come
here? Why did I want her to come? I made a mess of the housekeeping, and
now I have made a mess of the visit of the strangers. Oh, I'm the sort
of girl who oughtn't to go a step alone!--I really, really am! I think
I'm the very weakest sort of girl in all the world!"

Polly sobbed and sobbed. It was not her custom to give way thus utterly,
but she was in severe pain of body, and she had got a great shock when
the loss of little Pearl had been announced by David.

"What shall I do?" she moaned and sobbed. "Oh, I'm the sort of girl who
oughtn't to go a step alone."

While she cried all by herself on the moor, and the friendly stars
looked down at her, and the moon came out and shone on her poor forsaken
little figure, an old verse she used to say in her early childhood
returned to her memory. It was the verse of a hymn--a hymn her mother
was fond of, and used often to sing, particularly about the time of the
New Year, to the children.

Mrs. Maybright had a beautiful voice, and on Sunday evenings she sang
many hymns, with wonderful pathos and feeling, to her children. Polly,
who cared for music on her own account, had loved to listen. At these
times she always looked hungrily into her mother's face, and a longing
and a desire for the best things of all awoke in her breast. It was at
such times as these that she made resolves, and thought of climbing high
and being better than others.

Since her mother's d