This being the state of affairs, great was the alarm of all one day as it became evident that Tilderee was missing.  The ranch was a scene of intense excitement when, after an exploration of the neighborhood, the child was not found.  The news spread like a prairie fire.  The settlers for miles around joined the party which set out to continue the search.  The poor mother was frantic.  The father went about helplessly, like a man dazed by a terrible blow.  Peter galloped wildly to and fro upon Twinkling Hoofs, without an idea where he was going.  Joan cried as though her heart would break.

Fudge had disappeared also.  Had he gone with Tilderee?  There was a grain of comfort in the suggestion; yet, even so, what could a poor baby do, astray and with no other defender?  Evening came, and still there was no trace of the child.  All through the night they continued to seek her, guided by the light of the stars and the glimmer of their pine torches.  But in vain.

II.

On that memorable day, shortly after dinner, if mother had not been so absorbed by the discovery that certain wee, blundering fingers had sprinkled sugar instead of salt over her new batch of butter; or if Joan, instead of going for the third time since morning to the lowest drawer of the deal clothes-press which contained the family wardrobe, to take an aggrieved look at Angelina,—­if either had glanced out of the doorway, she would have seen a diminutive figure tripping down the trail in happy unconcern, with Fudge gambolling along in front.

Tilderee did not mean to be disobedient:  she had no intention of running away; but it was so easy to forget that she had passed the bounds which love had set for her, when the May breezes, like eager playmates, seemed to beset her to frolic with them, catching at her frock, tip-tilting her pretty print sunbonnet (the one with the tiny pink roses scattered over a blue ground), ruffling her chestnut curls, and whisking her little plaid shawl awry.  A patch of yellow wild flowers by the way appeared all at once endowed with wings, as from their midst arose a flight of golden butterflies.  What fun to chase them!  Fudge thought so too, and a merry pursuit followed.  Tired and out of breath, Tilderee paused at last.  Fudge returned with a bound to her side, and stood panting and wagging his tail, as if to ask:  “Well, what shall we play next?” They were now half a mile from home, but neither turned to look back.

“Fudge, I’m going to pick a lovely bouquet for mother,” Tilderee confided to him, patting his shaggy head.  He sniffed his approval, and trotted after her as she flitted hither and thither culling the bright blossoms.  Now she left the lowlands called the prairie, and climbed Sunset Hill in search of prettier posies.  Beyond this rocky knoll was an oak wood, from the direction of which came the noise of running water.  At the sound