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She said nothing about the tragedy of the morning when her father came in, partly because she felt that nobody could appreciate the depth of her grief but mother, and because she had made up her mind not to complain of Tilderee, a conclusion which she secretly felt entitled her to rank as a heroine. But Tilderee related the occurrence herself as soon as her mother returned.
At intervals the seekers sent a message back to the desolate home. Sometimes it was: "Keep up your courage; we trust all will be well." Or, "Though we have not yet found the child, please God we will soon restore her to you," and so on. But, soften it as they could, the fact remained their expedition had been fruitless: Tilderee was still lost.
Tilderee at once sprang to her feet gaily, threw her arms around Joan's waist, and held up her rosy mouth for the kiss of mutual forgiveness, Fudge wriggling and wagging his tail. Joan now busied herself about the mid-day meal, for which her mother had made the principal preparation before setting out.
At first he feared she might be dead, so pale and motionless she lay; but when he whispered gently, "Tilderee!" the white eyelids fluttered, then unclosed; the dull eyes lighted up in recognition, and she smiled a wan, weak little smile. Once more Abe's cheery voice rang out, calling, "Found! found!" and the woods and cliffs made merry with the echoes.
Peter and Joan could add their story, too. Peter might tell, for instance, how Tilderee and Fudge, the companion of most of her pranks, frightened off the shy prairie-dogs he was trying to tame; saying they had no right to come there pretending to be dogs when they were only big red squirrels, which indeed they greatly resembled. Still he was very fond of his little sister.
Yet exhausted nature stills even the cry of grief and penitence. Tilderee, moreover, felt wonderfully comforted by her prayer. To the pure heart of a child Heaven is ever "close by." From her rude asylum under the cliff the little wanderer looked across at the sky. It was clear and bright with myriad stars.
P'rhaps if we were other folks, and our names were something else 'sides Tilderee and Fudge, we might be better." "I'm afraid Fudge is a hard case," sighed her mother, restraining a smile; "and I should not like to see my little girl changed into any one else. But I expect we ought to call you as you were christened, and that is Matilda.
Yet she was continually getting into mischief; and to see her trotting to and fro, eager to be of use, but always lending a little hindering hand to everything, one would hardly consider her a help. "How should I ever get on without the child!" her mother would often exclaim; while at the same moment Tilderee might be dragging at her gown and interfering with her work at every step.
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.
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.
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