“I was asleeb and when I wog, I was wit rope tied.”
“Who cut the rope?” asked Dr. Hume, beginning to doubt the whole story.
“A gentlemans who mag to play music on the zither.”
“Phoebe’s father!” exclaimed the girls.
They glanced at each other with a wild surmise.
“It couldn’t have been——”
“No, no, I’m sure he never would——”
“Hush,” said Ben, “here comes Phoebe.”
The mountain girl, looking pale and distraught, her hair flying, her face and hands scratched from contact with brambles, rushed into their midst.
“My father,” she cried. “He has been lost all night. I have looked and looked and I cannot find him. Oh, if he should be in the marshes——”