THE two children stared hard, each at the other, blank dismay in both
their faces.
"He can't have got far," Jock sensibly observed. "I shouldn't wonder if
he thought he'd go home. And we'll find him there, all right."
"Oh no, no, we shan't. I know we shan't."
"Why not?"
"He couldn't. He doesn't know the way. He's lost, quite lost. And
p'raps we'll never find him again," sobbed Mousie. "And it's all my
fault—every bit my fault."
Jock thoughtfully offered his own pocket-handkerchief, which—like the
one which encircled his arm—was "almost quite clean." She accepted the
loan, but wept on. "I wouldn't cry if I was you," Jock suggested. "It's
no good. He's got to be found."
"But we don't know where he is."
"He hasn't gone far. Why—he couldn't, in such a scrap of time. Where
does this path go?"
"Oh, on and on in the wood. And it's a most awfully big wood—there's
miles and miles. Dad said so. He said—anybody might get lost in it."
"Well, come along. I'm sure Artie hasn't run miles." Jock felt himself
all at once the man in charge, able to take the lead. "Come."
Hand in hand they followed the path, skirting the pond, and then
plunged deep among tall forest trees. As they went, they again and
again raised the call of—"Artie!—Artie!"—but with no result. It seemed
to them both that they had walked an immense distance, when Jock at
length called a halt!
"I say—he's never come all this way. He couldn't. Let's go back, and
see if he's at the pond, waiting for us."
Despondingly Mousie agreed, and they trudged back, to find themselves
close to the pond much sooner than they expected. But no Artie
appeared. The two stood, a forlorn little couple, wondering what on
earth was to be done. What "could" have become of Artie?
Mousie's small face had grown white and peaked, and her eyes had
black shades under them. She dropped down on the grass, murmuring
hopelessly—"I'm so tired. I can't walk any more. And Artie is
quite—quite—lost. And we'll never see him again. And by-and-by it'll
be dark—and I'm so hungry—and Artie will starve. And we'll starve too.
And we'll be like the Babes in the Wood. You won't mind, will you, Jock
darling?"
"Jock darling" felt that he would mind it very much indeed. He was not
at all disposed for such a dismal ending to their half-holiday.
"Nonsense, Mousie," he said. "Don't be such a silly. We've got to go
home, and tell them, and then they'll come and find Artie."
"I can't. Oh, I couldn't—possibly. I never could do that. They'd be so
angry."
"Well—and if they are—what then? If we can't find him, you've just got
to tell, you know. And we've got to make haste."
Mousie shook a despairing head. She was crouching in a little heap on
the ground, a picture of hopelessness, her small hands propping up her
little pointed chin, as she gazed blankly around.
"I couldn't possibly tell," she wailed. "And you can't possibly go home
and tell about me, Jock, because that would be so mean—wouldn't it?
And you promised, too. I don't see how we can be like the Babes in the
Wood—'cause there's no blackberries. D'you think the birds would really
and truly come and cover us up? It would take such a lot of leaves."
Jock was about to say again—"Don't be such a goose—" when his eyes were
caught by a tiny streak of scarlet, which certainly did not belong
to grass or trees. It came through some thin underwood. And with a
startled "I say!" Jock rushed thither. Mousie followed.
Behind a clump of bushes, reposing peacefully in a small hollow, they
found a plump and round-faced little boy, sound asleep, nestling close
to a big tree-root, which one fat arm embraced.
"Artie!" cried the enraptured Phœbe, and she went down by his side,
hugging and kissing with her usual vehemence. "Oh, you darling—how
could you? And never to hear all our shouting. Jock, isn't he funny?
Wake up, wake up, Artie boy! Oh, you dear, silly old thing!"
Mousie went into fits of laughter as the sleeper slowly opened his eyes
and sat up, drowsy and bewildered still. He looked vaguely round, and
yawned.
"What did make you come here?" Mousie demanded.