“Don’t be frightened,” called Tom.  “Follow me.”

He led the way with Reddy, but the storm was upon them before they had gone ten steps.  The wind almost blew them off their feet and black darkness settled down over the woods.  They could just see the outlines of the trees as they staggered on, a blinding rain drenching them to the skin.

Tom divided the party into two sections, four in one and five in the other.  They were to hold each other’s hands tightly and keep together.  Frequent flashes of lightning revealed the woods in a tremendous state of agitation and it seemed better to be moving than to stand still and watch the terrifying spectacle.

On they stumbled, but suddenly came to grief, for the four in front fell headlong over a tree that had been blown across the path, and the other five hearing their cries of warning too late, followed after.

By the time they had picked themselves up the storm had grown so furious that they could only press miserably together and wait for it to pass.

Suddenly Tom amazed them all by putting his hands to his mouth and blowing a strange kind of hollow whistle that sounded like the note of a trumpet.

He repeated the whistle again and again.  “You may not believe it,” he said between calls, “but the hunter who taught me this, told me never to use it unless I was in dire need.  Then help of some sort would surely come.  It is called the Elf’s Horn.”

“Did you ever try it before,” asked Reddy curiously.

“No,” he answered, “I never did.  I suppose it’s only superstition, but I love hunter’s lore.  Perhaps it may work.  Who knows?”

“Hello-o-o!” cried a voice seemingly close by.  “Hello-o-o!”

“Where are you?” called Tom.

“This way,” answered the voice, and a light flashed a little distance off, revealing to them a man waving a lantern with one hand and beckoning with the other.  One and all dashed toward the light, feeling that shelter was at hand.

“It must be a hunter,” panted Tom, “and he has heard the Elf’s Horn.”

It was a hunter, and none other than old Jean.  Their blind wandering had taken them straight to the hunter’s cabin.

“It is Mademoiselle Grace and her friends,” cried the old man with delight.  “When the sky grow so dark, I take my lantern and go out to my trap I have set this morning.  Then I hear a strange whistle, many times, and I think some one get lost and I cry ‘hello,’ and you answer and I find mademoiselle and her friends.”

“That was the Elf’s Horn, Jean,” replied Tom, “and you heard because you are a hunter.”

“I know not what monsieur mean by Elf Horn, but I hear whistle, anyhow, and come,” remarked the old man, smiling.

The others laughed.

“It’s a shame to spoil it,” replied David, “but I am afraid your Elf’s Horn and Jean’s helloing were just a coincidence.”

“Coincidence or not,” replied Tom good-naturedly, “my faith in the fairy horn is now unshakable.  I shall use it again if I ever need to.”