ngaged in the
search. Mr. Latimer, they said, was almost like a detective, he had such
an instinct for finding things and people. Mr. Brown knew every field
and hollow on the Brookfield Road. Mr. MacDonald could see just as well
in the darkness as in the daytime; and all the talk that reached the
mother's ears was of this man's skill of woodcraft, of that man's
knowledge of the country, or of another's unfailing cleverness or
tirelessness.

Outside, the two or three men in charge stood by the father in their own
way. It had been agreed that he should wait at the hilltop to learn if a
trail had been found. He was a good fellow, but not helpful or capable;
and it was their work to "jolly" him, as they called it; to keep his
hope up with cheering suggestions, and with occasional judicious doses
of whiskey from their flasks. For themselves, they did not drink; though
their voices were low and steady they were more nervous than the poor
sufferer they guarded, numbed and childish in his awful grief and
apprehension. They were waiting for the sounds of the beginning of the
search far below, and presently these sounds came, or rather one sound,
a hollow noise, changeful, uneven, yet of a cruel monotony. It was a cry
of "Willy! Willy! Willy!" rising out of that gray-black depth, a cry of
many voices, a cry that came from far and near, a cry at which the women
huddled closer together and pressed each other's hands, and looked
speechless love and pity at the woman who lay upon her best friend's
breast, clutching it tighter and tighter. Of the men outside, the father
leaned forward and clutched the arm of his chair. The others saw the
great drops of sweat roll from his brow, and they turned their faces
away from him and swore inaudibly.

[Illustration]

Then, as the deep below began to be alive with a faint dim light
reflected from the half awakened heaven, the voices died away in the
distance, and in their place the leaves of the great trees rustled and
the birds twittered to the coming morn.

* * * * *

The day broke with the dull red that prophesies heat. As the hours wore
on the prophecy was fulfilled. The moisture of the dew and the river
mist rose toward the hot sky and vanished, but the dry haze remained and
the low sun shone through it with a peculiar diffusion of coppery light.
Even when it reached the zenith, the warm, faintly yellow dimness still
rose high above the horizon, throwing