een anxious on her father's account. But
that all seemed years ago, and the remembrance of it quickly passed.

The trail wandered on, keeping to the hilltops for some time. Mead
told Marguerite that the boy had been cold in the early morning and
had stayed on the hilltops because it was warmer there when the sun
first rose. Then the trail went up and down again, sometimes over the
hills and sometimes following the arroyos, sometimes turning on itself
and going back, and sometimes circling about in long curves, facing by
turns all points of the compass. Along arroyos, and on hillsides that
were comparatively barren and sandy it was easily followed. At other
times Mead lost it entirely and they would wander about, searching the
ground closely. Once Marguerite found the faint track of the shoe when
Mead was going away in another direction, and she called him back
delightedly. For long distances he would spring rapidly along a trail
so faint that it was only by close scrutiny she could see anything,
his mind unconsciously marking the distance from one trace to where
the next should be, his eye skimming the ground and his quick sight
catching the crushed flower stem, the sunken pebble, the broken blade
of grass, the tiny depression of heel or toe that marked the way.

The girl toiled on after him, sometimes falling far behind and again
catching up and walking by his side. The slumbrous heat of the October
day filled the clear, dry air and the sun shone fiercely, unveiled by
a single vaporous cloud. Marguerite's mouth was dry and her throat was
parched and all her body called for water. She thought of the thirst
and the hunger that must be tormenting the little thing that had been
wandering over those sun-flooded hills, with neither food nor drink
nor sight of friendly face, for so many hours, and the agony of the
thought seemed more than she could endure. Sharp, lightning-like pains
cracked through her brain, and a dizzy, chaotic whirl filled her head.
She put her hands to her forehead and stopped short on the hillside,
the fear flying through her mind that she might be going mad. Mead saw
her and came quickly to her side, alarmed by her white, tense face and
the wild look of agony in her eyes. Her lips were pale and dry.

"Do not stop!" she pleaded. "It is nothing but a little headache.
Don't stop a minute for me. Five minutes may mean the difference
between life and death for my little boy. Hurry on, and I will come
clos