Fudge had disappeared also. Had he gone with Tilderee? There was a grain of comfort in the suggestion; yet, even so, what could a poor baby do, astray and with no other defender? Evening came, and still there was no trace of the child. All through the night they continued to seek her, guided by the light of the stars and the glimmer of their pine torches. But in vain.
II.
On that memorable day, shortly after dinner, if mother had not been so absorbed by the discovery that certain wee, blundering fingers had sprinkled sugar instead of salt over her new batch of butter; or if Joan, instead of going for the third time since morning to the lowest drawer of the deal clothes-press which contained the family wardrobe, to take an aggrieved look at Angelina,—if either had glanced out of the doorway, she would have seen a diminutive figure tripping down the trail in happy unconcern, with Fudge gambolling along in front.
Tilderee did not mean to be disobedient: she had no intention of running away; but it was so easy to forget that she had passed the bounds which love had set for her, when the May breezes, like eager playmates, seemed to beset her to frolic with them, catching at her frock, tip-tilting her pretty print sunbonnet (the one with the tiny pink roses scattered over a blue ground), ruffling her chestnut curls, and whisking her little plaid shawl awry. A patch of yellow wild flowers by the way appeared all at once endowed with wings, as from their midst arose a flight of golden butterflies. What fun to chase them! Fudge thought so too, and a merry pursuit followed. Tired and out of breath, Tilderee paused at last. Fudge returned with a bound to her side, and stood panting and wagging his tail, as if to ask: "Well, what shall we play next?" They were now half a mile from home, but neither turned to look back.
"Fudge, I'm going to pick a lovely bouquet for mother," Tilderee confided to him, patting his shaggy head. He sniffed his approval, and trotted after her as she flitted hither and thither culling the bright blossoms. Now she left the lowlands called the prairie, and climbed Sunset Hill in search of prettier posies. Beyond this rocky knoll was an oak wood, from the direction of which came the noise of running water. At the sound Tilderee remembered that she was thirsty. "There must be a brook in yonder," she said. "Come, Fudge, let us go and see." Trampling among the brambles, the little girl pushed on, and soon came to a small stream dashing along over a stony course. Forming an oak leaf into a cup, as she had often seen Joan do, Tilderee dipped it into the clear current; and by this means, and the sips between times which she took up in the hollow of her hand, succeeded in obtaining a refreshing drink; while from the opposite bank Fudge put down his head and took his share with less ceremony.
Tilderee chose a seat upon a log and rested. To amuse herself she broke off pieces of the underbrush and began to strip them of their leaves. "To make horsewhips, you know," she explained, with a teasing glance at Fudge. He understood very well, and shrank away a trifle; but the next minute the baby hands caressed his rough coat, and she added lovingly: "No, no, Fudge! Nobody shall touch such a good dog!" Throwing aside the sticks, she tried to weave the leaves into garlands, as Joan had taught her. The attempt was hardly a success. As the wreath with which Fudge submitted to be crowned speedily fell apart, she concluded that, instead of making a chain for herself, it would be nicer to carry the oak twig for a sun-shade. At present, however, she laid it carefully on the ground beside her flowers, and proceeded to play in the stream, with bits of bark for boats. Fudge enjoyed this too for a while, but soon he grew restless.
All at once the child became aware that the woods had grown darker; the sunlight no longer glanced in among the green boughs; through the foliage she caught a glimpse of the western sky, which was flecked with flame and beryl and amber. Next she realized that it must be a great while since dinner. With the sense of hunger came a feeling of dismay. Where was she, and how should she get home? "It must be most supper time, Fudge," she said, choking down a sob. The little dog looked up into her face with affectionate concern, and thrust his cold nose into her hand, as if to say encouragingly: "Trust me, and I will lead you back." He began to sniff the ground; and, having found the scent, endeavored to prevail upon his young mistress to follow his guidance. But Tilderee was sure that she knew best. "No, Fudge," she called; "not that way. This is the right path, I'm sure. Come quick!" Vainly the sagacious animal used all his dumb arts to induce her to rely upon him; vainly he crouched and whined, and begged her to go his way. Tilderee obstinately stumbled on in the opposite direction. Fudge laid down and watched her despairingly for a few moments; then, with a sigh almost like that of a human being, he sprang after her. If actions speak louder than words, could he have said more plainly: "Well, if you will get lost, I must go with you to take care of you?"
They wandered on, far beyond the source of the stream, emerged from the wood, and strayed along the side of a deep gorge or canon. At every step the surroundings grew wilder, the way more rocky and precipitous. If she had been older, what terrors would have affrighted the child! An appalling dread of the Indians, fear of the wild cattle of the wilderness, the apprehension of countless dangers. But in her baby innocence, Tilderee knew nothing of these perils. She only felt that she was weary and chilled, and faint for want of food. "Oh Fudge, if we could only get home to mother!" she moaned. "Tilderee's so tired and sleepy, and it will be dark night soon." At the thought she threw herself on the ground and began to cry bitterly.
Fudge looked disconsolate. A second he stood irresolute and distressed, but presently drew nearer, and, with unobtrusive sympathy, licked away the salt tears that rolled down her chubby cheeks. Then he roused himself, as if he comprehended that something must be done, and ran to and fro, barking with all his might, and poking about with his nose to the earth. At length he came upon a nook under a projecting rock, which seemed to promise a slight shelter from the cold night air. Perhaps it was the instinct of self-preservation which led him to attract the attention of his helpless companion to it. Several times he returned to her, looked beseechingly into her face, then ran back to the rock.
"You want me to go in there, Fudge?" she faltered at last, noticing his antics. "Well, I will. P'rhaps it'll be warmer. And I'm afraid nobody'll come now till morning."