“Mrs. Krutzer,” he calls, halting beside the one most remote from the camp fire.

“What is wanted?” answers a shrill, feminine voice.

“Is the little one with you?”

[11]“Yes.” This time there is a ring of impatience in the voice.

[11]

“Have you seen Pearson since the storm?”

“My gracious! No.”

“How is Krutzer?”

“No better; the storm has doubled him up like a snake. Do you want him?”

“Not if he can’t walk.”

“Well he can’t; not a step.”

“Then good-night, Mrs. Krutzer.” And Parks returns to the men at the fire.

“There’s something wrong,” he says, with quiet gravity.

“Pearson has not been near the child since the storm. Get your lanterns, boys; we will go up the hill.”

It is only a slight elevation, with a pyramid of rocks, one or two wide-spreading trees; and a fringe of lesser growth at the summit.

A moment the lanterns flash about, while the men converse in low tones. Then one of them exclaims:

“Here he is! Pearson; Heavens, man, wake up!”

But the still form outstretched upon the water-soaked blanket, and doubly sheltered by the great rocks and bending branches, moves not in response to his call.

They crowd about him, and Walter Parks bends closer and lets the full light of the lantern he carries, fall upon the still face.

“Good God!”

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