Chapter XIII

CHAPTER XIII.

Two men were walking near a cottage in the winter sun-light of the early morning. There came to the door a young woman, who looked pale and tired. She carried a bowl of milk to a little calf, and on her way back to the cottage she paused, and shading her eyes, that were red with weeping, lingered awhile, looking far and near. Then, with a sigh, she returned indoors and worked restlessly at her household duties.

"It breaks my heart to see my wife do that," said the taller man, who carried a gun. "All day long she comes out and looks for the child. One knows, now, that the poor little one can never come back to us," and as the big man spoke there was a queer choking in his voice.

The younger man did not speak, but he patted his friend's shoulder in a kindly manner, which showed that he too was very sorry.

"Even you have lost heart, Jack," said the big bushman, "but we will find her yet; the wife shall have that comfort."

"You'll never do it now," said the young fellow with a mournful shake of the head. "There is not an inch of ground that so young a child could reach that we have not searched. The mystery is, what could have become of her?"