“Bruno, where is our little Violet?” asked Mr. Travilla, stooping to pat the dog’s head and showing him the child’s slipper, “lead the way, sir; we must find her.”  There was a slight tremble in his tones.

“Dinah,” he said, turning to the girl, who stood sobbing in the doorway, “if your mistress wakes while I am gone, tell her not to be alarmed; no doubt with Bruno’s help I shall very soon find the child and bring her safely back.  See he has the scent already,” as the dog who had been snuffing about suddenly started off at a brisk trot down the avenue.

Mr. Travilla hurried after, his fatherly heart beating with mingled hope and fear.

On and on they went closely following in the footsteps of the little runaway.  The dog presently left the road that passed directly in front of Ion, and turned into another, crossing it at right angles, which was the stage route between the next town and the neighboring city.

It was now some ten or fifteen minutes since the stage had passed this spot bearing the dead body of the driver who had met his tragical end some quarter of a mile beyond.

The loud rumble of the wheels had waked little Vi, and as in a flash she had seen the whole—­the horrible apparition in its glistening, rattling robes, step out from behind a tree and fire, and the tumble of its victim into the dusty road.  Then she had sunk down upon the ground overpowered with terror.

But the thought of the almighty Friend who, she had been taught, was ever near and able to help, calmed her fears somewhat.

She was still on her knees sobbing out her little prayer over and over again, when a dark object bounded to her side, and Bruno’s nose was thrust rather unceremoniously into her face.

“Bruno, you good Bruno!” she cried clasping her arms about his neck, “take me home! take me home!”

“Ah, papa will do that, now he has found his lost darling,” said a loved voice, as a strong arm put aside the bushes, and grasped her slight form with a firm, but tender hold.  “How came my little pet here so far away from home?” he asked, drawing her to his breast.

“I don’t know, papa,” she sobbed, nestling in his arms and clinging about his neck, her wet cheek laid close to his, “that carriage waked me, and I was ’way out here, and that dreadful thing was over there by a tree, and it shooted the man, and he tumbled off on the ground.  O papa, hurry, hurry fast, and let’s go home; it might come back and shoot us too.”

“What thing, daughter?” he asked, soothing her with tender caresses, as still holding her to his breast, he walked rapidly toward home.

“Great big white thing, with horns, papa.”

“I think my pet has been dreaming?”

“No, no, papa, I did see it, and it fired, and the man tumbled off, and the horses snorted and ran so fast; then they stopped, and the other mans came back, and I heard them say, ‘He’s killed; he’s quite dead.’  O papa, I’m so frightened!” and she clung to him with convulsive grasp, sobbing almost hysterically.