In the middle was a cedar tree. Under it, seated upon the ground, was the
lost boy. His bare, brown legs, torn and bleeding, were stretched straight
in front of him. His bare feet were bruised and cut. His gingham dress was
torn and wet and stained. His small hands were smears of dirt and blood. He
was playing with a tin can. He had put a stone into it and was making a
great rattling. The dog was running to and fro, apparently enjoying the
noise. The little boy's face was tear-stained and his eyes were swollen.
But he was not crying just then and laughter lurked in his thin,
fever-flushed face.

As the men came into view, the dog began to bark angrily, but the boy
looked a solemn welcome.

"Want mamma," he said. "I'se hungry."

One of the men picked him up--the gingham dress was saturated.

"You're hungry?" asked the man, his voice choking.

"Yes. An' I'se so wet. It wained and wained." Then the child began to sob.
"It was dark," he whispered, "an' cold. I want my mamma."

It was an hour's tedious journey back to Dent's by the shortest route. At
the top of the hill those near the cottage saw the boy in the arms of the
man who had found him. They shouted and the mother sprang out of the house
and came running, stumbling down the path to the gate. She caught at the
gate-post and stood there, laughing, screaming, sobbing.

"Baby! Baby!" she called.