“Gracious alive, you don’t mean to say that anything has happened to him?” cried poor Mrs. Busson; “what will come next?”
“Why, Andrew, how red you’ve got!” cried Jack, suddenly.
“Yes, you are red,” echoed several voices, whilst all eyes were turned on Andrew’s guilty face. “Oh! you know something about Gaston, that’s quite clear.”
“I asked—no—he wanted,” faltered Andrew, “at least I went to look through the bushes, a long, long time ago and it was gone, he must—”
“Oh! I guess,” cried Phoena, and in another minute she had dashed out of doors, across the garden, and on to the orchard, with all the others following her.
Yes, Andrew was right! It had gone! There was no monster bee-hive to be seen on the empty chair in the middle of the table mountain.
Only a cry of great dismay rang out on the still evening air, as Phoena was seen to sink on her knees and half disappear in the high grass.
For there at the foot of the hillock, a heap of straw lay motionless, whilst from under the straw, Gaston’s little face, ghastly and drawn with suffering, looked out.
“Gaston! dear, dear little Gaston, do speak,” implored Phoena.
The lips moved, but no sound came from them.