“Depends on speed,” muttered George.
“And somebody is sure to come soon to find her. She must have wandered away from a party of tourists. We must just stay and keep guard till they appear. It is quite impossible to leave the little mite alone. Perhaps she will sit on my lap.”
But a touch from Dulcibel brought an immediate howl—not a tearful cry, only one loud, distinct shout of protest, with an accompanying scowl.
“I’m afraid she has a temper,” said Dulcie, rather alarmed.
Delay being decided upon, Dulcibel sat down, and George wandered about near at hand, repeatedly coming back to observe with curious eyes the solemn, black-eyed infant, seated pompously apart, with folded hands and calm demeanor. Leo tried his hand next, very cautiously. He drew near, and made funny grimaces, and snapped his fingers, and tossed leaves into her lap. She flung the leaves back at him, frowning still; but presently a dimple appeared in the rounded red-brown cheek, and the beautiful black eyes lighted up with a smile. Leo offered a biscuit, only to have it thrown back in his face with a renewed scowl. George meanwhile crossed the bridge, and vainly explored the neighborhood for tracks or traces of somebody. Presently, finding Leo still baffled by the little creature’s resolute unfriendliness, he came near himself, and with a quick movement lifted her straight up into his strong arms. One indignant shout rose, and then she seemed to submit—nay, seemed rather to like her new position.
“Poor wee mite!” said George. “Now, my little dear, tell me, where’s mother?”
“Don!” was this time very distinct.
“When will she come back? Did she tell you to wait here?” A nod. “Come that’s better. Did mother go to speak to somebody?” No response. “Did mother say she would be back soon?” No response. “How soon is mother coming. Don’t you know? Ah, I thought not!” as the black head was decisively shaken. “Dear me, how strange of mother to leave you here, all alone! And your name is Joan, isn’t it?” Another nod. “I thought so. Joan will have to come home with us, and be taken care of, till mother can be found.”
No answer; but Joan seemed extremely comfortable in his arms. A drowsy look was creeping into the black eyes, as if the poor little mind had been long on the stretch and needed rest. While George stood holding her, she laid her head down on his broad shoulder, and went to sleep.
“Poor wee lamb!” murmured George, quite touched.