It was a Sabbath morning in November, clear, bright and frosty.  Mrs. Dudley’s family were preparing for church.  They heard Carlo bark violently, and knew a stranger must be near.  Carlo is a faithful watch-dog, but his habit of barking at visitors is so disagreeable, that he is usually kept chained in the day-time.  On Sunday, as no company is expected, he is permitted to go at large.  When Mr. Dudley heard Carlo, he immediately threw open the window, and spoke to him.  He saw a gentleman, who was evidently much alarmed.  None of the family knew him.  The stranger soon made known the occasion of his call, by inquiring,

“Have you seen any thing of a stray child?”

“No, we have not; whose child is lost?”

“Mr. McPherson’s.”

“How old is the child?”

“About six years old.  His mother sent him from home, yesterday, about two o’clock, and she has heard nothing from him since.  He had a small tin pail with him to get some yeast.”

It is sad to hear that a child is lost, and all the family sympathized with the anxious parents.  “How badly you would feel if I was lost!” said Eddie, and he looked sober and grieved, as he thought of the little boy about his own age, who had wandered from home, no one knew where.  There was much fear that he had fallen into the river, as he had been seen on the dock.

At ten o’clock the family started for church.  They met people who were searching for the child, and who asked them, as the gentleman had done at the house, “Have you seen any thing of a stray child?”

Notice was given in the churches that a boy was lost, and many a mother’s heart beat quicker as she thought of her own dear little ones, and imagined one of them sleeping, perhaps, through that cold November night on the ground, or (fearful thought!) buried deep in the chill water.

After church, you could hear one and another inquiring anxiously, “Has the child been found?” But no favourable answer was received.  In the afternoon, however, many hearts were gladdened by learning that he was safe.  He had gone to the village, and got his pennyworth of yeast, and then, instead of returning immediately, he stopped to play with some boys.  He had gone with them to a part of the village with which he was not acquainted and when he wished to go home, he did not know what direction to take.  He chose a road leading him from home, and wandered at least five miles.  Just before dark an old gentleman and his grandson were walking on the road, and they observed this little boy crying.

“What do you suppose he is crying about?” said the child to his grandfather.

“I don’t know.  Perhaps he has been sent to the grocery, and does not like to go.”

They watched him and found he did not stop, but passed on with his tin pail, crying grievously.  They waited for him to come up to them, and asked him,

“What are you crying about?”