They passed through the pleasant garden into the silent house, and the softly shaded room where they had left the sleeping child. There stood the dainty little cradle, but the child was gone!
At first they thought some of the servants had returned and taken it to some other room; but when they had searched the whole house, and ran, calling in vain, through the garden, they were almost wild with fright.
Tears streamed from the eyes of the young girl as she looked helplessly into the face of old Macata, who tore her long hair, and moaned piteously. She could not cease looking, although it seemed hopeless.
“In so short a time to disappear, and leave no trace behind to aid this search!” The child! The poor little innocent child she loved so dearly, gone, she knew not where! How could she meet the father and mother?
Thus, full of despair, she ran about, looking in vain, and calling wildly upon her darling, until the señor and his wife returned.
To picture the scene that followed would be impossible. The torturing grief of the unhappy father was mingled with all the terrors of suspense, and the desolate heart of the sorrowing mother refused to be comforted. Day and night she sobbed bitterly, “Would that God had taken my baby to himself!”
The whole country was roused. The search continued for many days, till hope died out in every heart. Then it was that a fearful fever seized the mother, exhausted by grief, want of sleep, and the fatigues of a hopeless search. For weeks her life was despaired of; and when at last the fever left her, the light had gone from her eye, the smile from her lips, and the hope of happiness from her heart.
The old Macata never left her side. At first the mother shuddered when she came near; but as she looked upon the hair of the old woman, which, since the loss of the child, had become white as the driven snow, her heart softened, and she shed her first tears upon the bosom of the penitent and sorrowing nurse.
For many weeks the luxury of tears had been denied her, and, from that first bursting of the flood-gates of her grief, she could not bear the old Indian long out of her sight. A mutual sorrow bound their hearts together.
Macata could never do enough for the dear, sad señora, but sometimes she would go to her, saying, “Bless me now, señora dear; I am going to look for our baby.”