page to discover a possible explanation.  Finding none, he smiled at his own fancy, and then proceeded with his reading.  But, again, the bell tolled, and he wondered whether anything he had eaten at dinner could be held responsible for the hallucination.  Scarcely had he resumed his reading when the bell again tolled.  He could stand it no longer, and must come upon the solution of the mystery.  Bells do not toll at nine o’clock, and the weirdness of the affair disconcerted him.  The nearer he drew to the foot of the stair, in his quest for information, the more foolish he felt his question would seem to the members of the family.  But the question had scarce been asked when the boy of the house burst forth:  “Yes, been tolling for half an hour.”  Meekly he asked:  “Why are they tolling the bell?” “Child lost.”  “Whose child?” “Little girl belonging to the Norwegians who live in the shack down there by the woods.”

So, that was it!  Well, it was some satisfaction to have the matter cleared up, and now he could go back to his book.  He had noticed the shack in question, which was made of slabs set upright, with a precarious roof of tarred paper; and had heard, vaguely, that a gang of Norwegians were there to make a road through the woods to Minnehaha Falls.  Beyond these bare facts he had never thought to inquire.  These people and their doings were outside of his world.  Besides, the book and the cheery room were awaiting his return.  But the reading did not get on well.  The tolling bell broke in upon it and brought before his mind the picture of a little girl wandering about in the storm and crying for her mother.  He tried to argue with himself that these Norwegians did not belong in his class, and that they ought to look after their own children.  He was under no obligations to them—­in fact, did not even know them.  They had no right, therefore, to break in upon the serenity of his evening.

But the bell tolled on.  If he could have wrenched the clapper from out that bell, the page of his book might not have blurred before his eyes.  As the wind moaned about the house he thought he heard a child crying, and started to his feet.  It was inconceivable, he argued, that he, a grown man, should permit such incidental matters in life to so disturb his composure.  There were scores, perhaps hundreds, of children lost somewhere in the world, for whom regiments of people were searching, and bells were tolling, too.  So why not be philosophical and read the book?  But the words would not keep their places, and the page yielded forth no coherent thought.  He could endure the tension no longer.  He became a whirlwind—­slamming the book upon the table, kicking off the slippers, throwing the smoking-jacket at random, and rushing to the closet for his gear.  At ten o’clock he was ready—­hip-boots, slouch-hat, rubber coat, and lantern, and went forth into the storm.