They wandered on, far beyond the source of the stream, emerged from the wood, and strayed along the side of a deep gorge or canon.  At every step the surroundings grew wilder, the way more rocky and precipitous.  If she had been older, what terrors would have affrighted the child!  An appalling dread of the Indians, fear of the wild cattle of the wilderness, the apprehension of countless dangers.  But in her baby innocence, Tilderee knew nothing of these perils.  She only felt that she was weary and chilled, and faint for want of food.  “Oh Fudge, if we could only get home to mother!” she moaned.  “Tilderee’s so tired and sleepy, and it will be dark night soon.”  At the thought she threw herself on the ground and began to cry bitterly.

Fudge looked disconsolate.  A second he stood irresolute and distressed, but presently drew nearer, and, with unobtrusive sympathy, licked away the salt tears that rolled down her chubby cheeks.  Then he roused himself, as if he comprehended that something must be done, and ran to and fro, barking with all his might, and poking about with his nose to the earth.  At length he came upon a nook under a projecting rock, which seemed to promise a slight shelter from the cold night air.  Perhaps it was the instinct of self-preservation which led him to attract the attention of his helpless companion to it.  Several times he returned to her, looked beseechingly into her face, then ran back to the rock.

“You want me to go in there, Fudge?” she faltered at last, noticing his antics.  “Well, I will.  P’rhaps it’ll be warmer.  And I’m afraid nobody’ll come now till morning.”

Dispirited, Tilderee dragged herself to the refuge he had found.  “I ’xpect it’s time for night prayers,” she said, with a tremor in her voice; “and I always say them with mother or Joan.”  Now she knelt upon the damp mould, made the Sign of the Cross, and, clasping her brier-scratched hands, repeated the “Our Father” and “Hail Mary” more devoutly than ever before.  When she came to the special little petition at the close, “Please, God, take care of Tilderee, and keep her and Fudge out of mischief,” she broke down again, and, weeping convulsively, threw her arms around the neck of her obstreperous but loyal playmate and friend, exclaiming, “Oh Fudge! if we ever get safe home we’ll never be naughty again, will we?”

Yet exhausted nature stills even the cry of grief and penitence.  Tilderee, moreover, felt wonderfully comforted by her prayer.  To the pure heart of a child Heaven is ever “close by.”  From her rude asylum under the cliff the little wanderer looked across at the sky.  It was clear and bright with myriad stars.  Suddenly one flashed across the broad expanse, blazed from the very zenith, and sped with incredible velocity down, down, till it disappeared in the depths of the ravine.  “Ah,” said she, with eyes still fixed upon the spot whence had gleamed the meteor, “p’rhaps it was