170 THE LAND OF PLUCK

“All my courage, Nat.” And then, after searching in
vain for more red berries, she would moan: “ Dear Father
in Heaven, I can’t find anything more for Nat to eat.
Oh, please show us the way home!”

Often she would tie her handkerchief high upon some
sapling, and, charging Nat on no account to “ move a single
inch, dear,” she would place him down by the tree, and
then press through the thicket and stumble over fallen
boughs in the vain hope of spying a foot-path or at least
the gleam of the noisy stream. Never once, however, did
she lose sight of the handkerchief that hung limp and
spiritless above Nat’s head.

In vain. There was no path; only the wilderness and
the growing darkness in every direction ; not a berry any-
where. Returning to her brother, and stroking his restless
little hands and whispering cheery words, she would sink
to the ground, and sob, in spite of herself.

What was that quick sound coming toward them? The
underbrush was so thick Winnie could not see what caused
it, but she held her breath in terror, thinking of wolves
and Indians, for there were many of both, she knew, lurk-
ing about in these ereat forests.

The sound ceased for a moment. Seizing Nat in her
arms, she made one more frantic effort to find her way to the
stream, then, seeing a strange look in the poor little face
when she put him down to take a firmer hold, she screamed :

“Nat! Nat! Don’t look so! Speak to Winnie!”

“Hello, there!” shouted a voice through the under-
brush, and in another instant a tall, keen-faced man came
stamping and breaking his way through the bushes.

ST