an angel flying down to me!  I won’t be afraid, ’cause I know God will take care of me.”  Drawing the small plaid shawl from her shoulders, she spread it over herself like a blanket; sparing a corner for Fudge, however, who stationed himself upon it, prepared to ward off all dangers from his charge.  And thus she fell asleep, cheered by the presence and warmed by the breath of the faithful little dog, her sole protector, humanly speaking, in that lonely wilderness.

* * * * *

During the long night, while the searching party was scouring the country, Mrs. Prentiss remained at home, keeping a bright light in the window, a fire on the kitchen hearth, the kettle on the crane, and everything ready to gladden and revive her darling in case, as she persisted in hoping, the dear little rover should, with the aid of fudge, find her way back of her own accord.  How many times she started up, thinking she heard the patter of childish feet!  How many times she rushed to the door at some sound which to her eager heart seemed like a cry of “Mother!” But Joan, who now kept as close to her as Tilderee was accustomed to do, would murmur sadly, after they had listened a while:  “It is only the wind or the call of a bird.”  At which the unhappy woman, with a great effort to be calm, would sigh:  “Let us say the Rosary again.”  Joan, whose face was stained with tears, and her eyes swollen and red from weeping, responded as best she could between her sobs.

Poor Joan learned in those hours what a terrible punishment is that of remorse.  Amid all her thoughts of Tilderee one scene was ever before her:  the picture of a rosy culprit, with tangled curls and beseeching eyes, grieved at the mischief she had done, and stammering, “I’m so sorry, Joan!” And then herself, as she snatched up the doll and answered harshly:  “You naughty girl!  I wish you didn’t live here!  I wish I hadn’t any little sister at all!” Well, her wish had come true:  Tilderee was gone.  Perhaps she would never live in the log house again.  There was no “little plague” to vex or bother Joan now.  The lighter chores, which were her part of the housework, could be finished twice as soon, and afterward she would have plenty of time to do as she liked:  to play with and sew for Angelina, for instance.  Angelina!—­how she hated the very name!  She never wanted even to see the doll again.  Tilderee might get up a “make-believe” funeral, and bury it under the white rosebush.  Yes, that would be the prettiest spot; and for old affection’s sake the thing should be done properly if she came back, —­ah, if!  And then Joan would put her head down upon the table or a chair, whichever happened to be near, or hide her face in the folds of her apron, and cry:  “What shall I do without Tilderee!  Oh, if God will only give her back to us, I will never say a cross or angry word again!”