“Help! help!” shrieked Mrs. Rowe, as she pressed on.
She was trembling all over. She dared not ask another question. A man hauling seaweed from the shore left his horses standing in the middle of the highway, and turned back with her.
Ah, the long, long hill! Should they never, never reach the foot of it? Midway Harry tripped again and fell.
Mrs. Rowe rushed forward alone. She had caught a glimpse of a small object floating near the beach. It was Weezy’s cap riding the waves like a little skiff. Yes, certainly it was Weezy’s cap,—the blue cap with gilt bands; but, alas! alas! where was the little girl who so lately had worn it? Where, oh, where was Weezy herself?
Not to pain you needlessly, my little readers, I will tell you in confidence that Weezy was out of the water, safe and well. But how could poor Mrs. Rowe know this? She only knew that her darling was not with the four other children now returning from Rocky Cove, and she called distractedly to Harry,—
“Show me just where Weezy fell in.”
“Hoff there,”—he pointed at random along the pier,—“hoff there, by the post.”
“Which post, my boy?” cried the ranchman. “There are forty or fifty posts.”
Harry grew confused; he could not answer.
“I’ll row out a piece,” said the man, hurriedly untying a punt moored to the beach.