her tent was closed, he supposed, without another thought, that she had returned from the hill-side, and was again in her tent with Eunice. A little impatiently he walked to and fro, watching the curtain door from time to time, in the hope that she would appear. But, as the reader knows, she did not appear. Yet it was not till her aunt came forth fresh from a late siesta, in answer to Ransom's call to dinner, that Harrod learned to his dismay, that Inez was not with her. If he felt an instant's anxiety, he concealed it. He only said:
"How provoking! I have been waiting for her because she said she would make a sketch from the knoll here, and now she must be at work somewhere all alone."
"She is a careless child," said Eunice, "to have gone away from us, into this evening air without her shawl. But no-she has taken that. Still she ought to be here."
But Harrod needed no quickening and had already run up the hill to call her.
Of course he did not find her. He did find the note-book and the sketch-book and the open box of colors. Anxious now, indeed, but very unwilling to make Eunice anxious, he ran down to the water's edge calling as loudly as he dared, if he were not to be heard at the camp, but hearing no answer. He came down to the very point where the cotton-wood tree had fallen, and he was too good a woodsman not to notice at once the fresh trail of the panther and the cubs. He found as well tupelo leaves and bay leaves, which he felt sure Inez had broken from their stems. Had the girl been frightened by the beast, and lost herself above or below in the swamp?
Or had she-horrid thought, which he would not acknowledge to himself,-had she ignorantly taken refuge on the fallen cotton-wood tree,-the worst possible refuge she could have chosen,-had she crept out upon it, and fallen into the deep water of the bayou?
He would not permit himself to entertain a thought so horrible. But he knew that a wretched half hour, nay, nearly an hour had sped since he spoke with her, and what worlds of misery can be crowded into an hour! He ran out upon the tree, and found at once the traces of the girl's lair there. He found the places where she had broken the branches. He guessed, and guessed rightly, where she had crouched. He found the very twig from which she had twisted the bright tupelo. And he looked back through the little vista to the shore, and could see how she saw the beasts standing by the water. He imagined the whole position. And he had only the wretched comfort that if she had fallen, it must be that some rag of her clothing, or some bit of broken branch below would have told the tale. No such token was there,-that is, it was not certain that she had fallen, and given one scream of agony unheard before the whole was over.
He must go back to camp, however unwillingly. He studied the trail with such agony, even, as he had not felt before. He followed down the side track which Inez had followed for a dozen yards,-but then was sure that he was wasting precious daylight. He fairly ran back to camp,-only careful to disturb by his foot-fall no trace which was now upon weed or leaf. And when he came near enough he had to walk as if not too eager.
"Has she come home?" said he, with well acted calmness.
"You have not found her? Dear, dear child, where is she?" And in an instant Eunice's eagerness and Harrod's was communicated to the whole camp. He showed the only traces he had found. He told of the open color-box and drawing-book, and Eunice instantly supplied the clue, which Harrod had not held before.
"She went down to fill her water-bottle. Did you find that there? A little cup of porcelain?"
No-Harrod had not seen that. He knew he should have seen it. And at this moment Ransom brought in all these sad waifs, and the white cup was not among them. Harrod begged the poor lady not to be distressed,-the fire of a rifle would call the girl in. But Eunice of course went with him, and then even her eye detected, instantly, what he had refrained from describing to her, the heavy foot-prints of the panther.
"What is that?" she cried; and Harrod had to tell her.
In an instant she leaped to his conclusion, that the child had taken refuge somewhere from the fear of this beast. And in an instant more, knowing what she should have done herself, knowing how steady of head and how firm of foot Inez was, she said:
"She ran out on that cotton-wood tree, Mr. Harrod,-look there,-and there,-and there,-she broke the bark away with her feet! My child! my child! has she fallen into the stream?"
VOL. XII. 2.
