"Oh, dear!" cried Toto, distractedly. "Oh, dear! what shall I do? Please don't be alarmed, Mr. Baldhead—I mean, Mr. Hermit. He is the best, dearest, kindest old fellow in the world, and it isn't his fault, because he was—"
"Born so!" resounded from without; and the poor hermit, now speechless with terror, could only gasp, and gaze at Toto with eyes of agonized entreaty.
"Yes, he was born so!" continued the boy. "And we might have been bears ourselves, you know, if we had happened to have them for fathers and mothers; so—" But here he paused in dismay, for the hermit, without more ado, quietly fainted away.
"Oh, Bruin! Crow! come here!" cried Toto. "I am afraid he is dead, or dying. What shall we do?"
At this summons the crow came hopping and fluttering in, followed by the unhappy bear, who skulked along, hugging the wall and making himself as small as possible, while he cast shamefaced and apologetic glances toward the bed.
"Oh, you needn't mind now!" cried Toto. "He won't know you are here. Do you think he is dead, Crow? Have you ever seen him like this before?"
But the crow never had; and the three were standing beside the bed in mute dismay, when suddenly a light flutter of wings was heard, and a soft voice cooed, "Toto! Bruin!" and the next moment Pigeon Pretty came flying into the cave, with a bunch of dried leaves in her bill. A glance showed her the situation, and alighting softly on the old man's breast she held the leaves to his nostrils, fanning him the while with her outspread wings.
"Oh!" she said, "I have flown so fast I am quite out of breath. You see, dears, I was afraid that something of this sort might happen, as soon as I heard of your going. I was in the barn, you know, when you were talking about it, and getting ready. So I flew to my old nest and got these leaves, of which I always keep a store on hand. See, he is beginning to revive already."