'Yes,' said I, 'but Maudie's rather cold. Perhaps it's best for us to go home,' and we got up and went towards the door.
I looked round for Serry. She wasn't in the corner we had seen her in.
'I expect Serry's outside in the porch,' I said to Anne. But no, she wasn't.
'She was sitting in the same place just before the girl came in,' said Anne. 'I saw her.'
'She can't have gone home,' I said. 'She's not very fond of walking about alone. She must be somewhere in the church.'
And then all of a sudden there came over me the remembrance of her boast about being able to hide in the church so that we couldn't find her. Was that what she had been after? Was that her reason for following us, that she thought it would be a good chance for playing us this trick? It was too bad. There was poor Maud tired and cold, and Anne and me who had been worried enough already. I really felt as if I couldn't stand it.
I asked Maud what she thought, but of course Serry hadn't said a word to her about hiding. It wasn't likely she would, but every minute we got surer that she was hiding.
You can't shout out in a church, and yet it wasn't easy to hunt. We began; we poked into any of the dark corners we could think of, and behind the doors and curtains, and even in the pulpit, though it was a sort of open-work that a mouse could scarcely have hidden in—not like the one in the 'Maggie' story. But it was all no use, and it was more provoking than you can fancy to know that all the time the naughty child was hearing us, and laughing at us. We went on for a quarter of an hour or more, I daresay; then I determined I'd bother no more.
'Stop, Anne,' I said, in a low voice, 'I'm not going to——' but Anne interrupted me.
'I hear something,' she said. 'Listen; what is it?'