The Gold Brick

by Ann S. Stephens

"Just go into the house, and let us talk it all over," said the kind-hearted farmer, leaving his oxen; "I don't understand."

"Oh, we cannot stop to talk—the child must be found. Isn't that Mr. Stokes coming up the hill? Call him—we must search—we must find it."

The farmer called out for Mr. Stokes to hurry forward, and at the same time ran to meet him. The two men stood talking together some minutes, then came toward the house in company.

Mrs. Allen had gone back to her daughter, and with tears raining down her face, was pleading with her. Poor woman! it was many years since she had cried like that, but when an infant comes to a lonely house, the fountain of tears is sure to swell afresh in the most stern bosom. The sweet word, "grandmother," had been applied to her. The baby's little heart had stirred against her own; without that child, all the stern desolation of her life would come back again.

But Katharine could not answer.

The two men came in, looking curious and excited; their presence seemed to strike Katharine dumb. She lay with her eyes wide open, staring at them. A vague smile wandered on her lips as they questioned her, but no words.

Baffled and still anxious, the men went into the kitchen again, leaving Mrs. Allen behind. They saw the tracks still imprinted on the floor, and followed them with keen observation. The tracks continued out into the yard, turned there, and led toward the orchard. One naked footprint was stamped on the top of the stone wall, as if a leap had pressed it deeply there. After this there was little trouble—broken places in the snow crust led them on till they stood by the rock under the butternut tree.

It is strange how soon a crowd will collect, if any thing unusual is going on, even in the remotest places. A good many people were on the road, some going to the stores at Chewstown or Falls Hill, some taking grists to mill, and others loitering on their way to the tavern, whose red sign swung on the river road a little beyond Rock Spring.

Before the two men, who tracked that terrible path, had touched the little white grave by the rock, some half-dozen persons had collected around it. A feeling of awe kept the first comers from touching the broken snow-crust; but now, a man in the crowd thrust it aside with his foot, and the rest set to work.

It took but little time to remove the white covering beneath, and, after a moment's work, the dead infant was found wrapped in a shawl, which was recognized by more than one present as belonging to Katharine Allen.