“Bessie!  Bessie! my darling, speak to me!” cried the father.

Her eyes opened slowly; for an instant she did not know who held her.

“Bessie, child, it’s father—­speak to me!”

She looked at him an instant, then with a pitiful cry buried her face in his bosom.

Bouncer staggered forward, and now, by the light of the lanterns, they could see a broad gash upon his shoulder, and another upon his head.  He looked up at Bessie with a mournful whine.

“Oh, Bouncer, dear Bouncer! can’t you tell me where they are?” cried Bessie, turning suddenly, and gazing upon him with streaming eyes.

The brave fellow tried to wag his tail, but his strength was failing fast.

“He came to me only a little while ago,” sobbed Bessie.  “Oh!  I was so thankful! but he came so slowly I knew he was hurt.  I put out my hand and felt him all hot and wet—­I can’t remember anything since then.  Oh! father, don’t let poor Bouncer die—­see! he is falling!  Dear old Bouncer!” and she threw herself down beside him.

The poor fellow turned his head, and tried to lick her hand; then started up, growling with something like his old savageness, and fell over.  They tried to lift him; they called his name.  Even Bessie attempted to arouse him with a cheerful call.  There was no movement;—­Bouncer was dead!

It seemed hard to leave the body of the faithful creature lying exposed in the forest, but this was no time to bury him.

All that they could gather from Bessie’s confused account of the surprise by the Indians, and her own escape, served to make the party feel that further effort was almost hopeless—­still they would not despair.  It was decided that one of their number should take the rescued girl back to her mother, while the rest should proceed in their search.

The fury of the storm had passed by this time, though the rain fell in great splashing drops, and the wind muttered angrily among the trees in answer to the distant rumbling of the thunder.  Drenched to her skin, and shivering with excitement, Bessie begged that she might go with her father.

“We will find them soon,” she pleaded; “I’m sure we will, and then we can all go home together.  It will frighten mother so dreadfully to see me coming alone, without Rudolph and Kittie, and Bouncer!”

The man whose lantern had gleamed upon her shaded the light with his great rough hand from the spot where Bouncer lay, and in a voice as tender as a woman’s, urged her to go with him at once,

“Go, Bessie,” said her father hurriedly, on seeing that she still resisted, “we are losing time.”

This was enough.  “Good-night, dear father!” she sobbed, as she was led away; “don’t tell Rudolph about Bouncer until he gets home, father—­it will almost break his heart.”

A voice that even Bessie could scarcely recognize called back through the darkness:  “Good-night, my child.  Go easy, Joe, and keep a sharp look-out.”