was bowed over her. I paused
reverently at a little distance; they were whispering together. The
light shed by the lanterns on the pond was the first thing that roused
them.

"But what next? Where shall we seek now?" asked Atlung.

I drew nearer. I now repeated to the parents, although more cautiously,
what I had already said to Stina, that perhaps the children were sitting
somewhere under a tree, waiting in their distress of mind for
compassionate angels, and in that case there would be danger of their
being already so cold that they would be ill. Before I had finished
speaking, Atlung had called up to those on the bank: "Had the boys their
out-door things on when they were last seen?"

"No," replied two of the by-standers.

He inquired if they had their caps on; and here opinions differed. I
insisted that they did have them on; some one else said No. Atlung
himself could not remember. Finally some one declared that the elder boy
had his cap on, but not the younger one.

"Ah, my poor little Storm!" wailed the mother.

Among the people on the edge of the pond there were some who wept so
loud that they were heard below. I think there were about twenty people,
side by side, about the lanterns.

Atlung shouted up to them: "We must search the whole park through; we
will begin with the housemen's places." And he came toward the bank,
climbed up and helped his wife up after him.

They were met by Stina. "My dear, dear lady!" she whispered,
beseechingly; but neither of the parents paid any attention to her.

I stared into the ravine below us. To look down on snow-laden trees from
above is like gazing on a petrified forest.

"Dear Atlung! will not you call?" begged the wife.

He took a position far in advance of the rest; all became still. And
then he called aloud through the wood, slowly and distinctly: "Anton and
little Storm! Come home to papa and mamma! Papa is no longer angry!"

Was it the air thus set in motion, or did the last flake of snow needed
to break an overladen branch fall just then, or had some one come into
contact with such a branch; suffice it to say, Atlung received for an
answer the snow-fall from a large bough, partly at one side, partly in
front of us. It gave a hollow crash, rousing the echoes of the wood, the
bough swayed to and fro, and rose to its place, and snow was showered
over us. But this swaying motion finally caused all the heavy branches
to loose their burdens; crash followed cra