there." She nodded at the bushes.

"Is she?" said Mother, and called aloud in her singing voice that was
so clear to hear in the spaces of the wood. "Joan! Joan!"

A cheeky bird answered with a whistle, and Mother called again.

"She said," explained Joyce; "she said she saw a wood-lady, and then
she went in there to show me she wasn't afraid."

"What's a wood-lady, chick?" asked Mother. "The rascal!" she said,
smiling, when Joyce had explained as best she could. "We'll have to
go and look for her."

They went hand in hand, and Mother showed herself clever in parting a
path among the bushes. She managed so that no bough sprang back to
strike Joyce, and without tearing or soiling her own soft, white
dress; one could guess that when she had been a little girl she, too,
had had a wood to play in. They cut down by the Secret Pond, where
the old rhododendrons were, and out to the edge of the fields; and
when they paused Mother would lift her head and call again, and her
voice rang in the wood like a bell. By the pond, which was a black
water with steep banks, she paused and showed a serious face; but
there were no marks of shoes on its clay slopes, and she shook her
head and went on. But to all the calling there was no answer, no
distant cheery bellow to guide them to Joan.

"I wish she wouldn't play these tricks," said Mother. "I don't like
them a bit."

"I expect she's hiding," said Joyce. "There aren't wood-ladies
really, are there, Mother?"

"There's nothing worse in these woods than a rather naughty baby,"
Mother replied. "We'll go back by the path and call her again."

Joyce knew that the hand which held hers tightened as they went, and
there was still no answer to Mother's calling. She could not have
told what it was that made her suddenly breathless; the wood about
her turned desolate; an oppression of distress and bewilderment
burdened them both. "Joan! Joan!" called Mother in her strong
beautiful contralto, swelling the word forth in powerful music, and
when she ceased the silence was like a taunt. It was not as if Joan
were there and failed to answer; it was as if there were no longer
any Joan anywhere. They came at last to the space of sparse trees
which bordered their garden.

"We mustn't be silly about this," said Mother, speaking as much to
herself as to Joyce. "Nothing can have happened to her. And you must
have lunch, chick."

"Without waiting for Joan?" asked Joyce.

"Yes. The gardener and