orgot he was thirsty. What do you
think it was he saw? It was a footprint in the soft mud. Yes, Sir, it
was a footprint.

For a long time Lightfoot stood staring at that footprint. In his
great, soft eyes was a look of wonder and surprise. You see, that
footprint was exactly like one of his own, only smaller. To Lightfoot it
was a very wonderful footprint. He was quite sure that never had he seen
such a dainty footprint. He forgot to drink. Instead, he began to search
for other footprints, and presently he found them. Each was as dainty as
that first one.

Who could have made them? That is what Lightfoot wanted to know and what
he meant to find out. It was clear to him that there was a stranger in
the Green Forest, and somehow he didn't resent it in the least. In
fact, he was glad. He couldn't have told why, but it was true.

Lightfoot put his nose to the footprints and sniffed of them. Even had
he not known by looking at those prints that they had been made by a
stranger, his nose would have told him this. A great longing to find the
maker of those footprints took possession of him. He lifted his handsome
head and listened for some slight sound which might show that the
stranger was near. With his delicate nostrils he tested the wandering
little Night Breezes for a stray whiff of scent to tell him which way to
go. But there was no sound and the wandering little Night Breezes told
him nothing. Lightfoot followed the dainty footprints up the bank.
There they disappeared, for the ground was hard. Lightfoot paused,
undecided which way to go.

CHAPTER XXXII

LIGHTFOOT SEES THE STRANGER

Lightfoot the Deer was unhappy. It was a strange unhappiness, an
unhappiness such as he had never known before. You see, he had
discovered that there was a stranger in the Green Forest, a stranger of
his own kind, another Deer. He knew it by dainty footprints in the mud
along the Laughing Brook and on the edge of the pond of Paddy the
Beaver. He knew it by other signs which he ran across every now and
then. But search as he would, he was unable to find that newcomer. He
had searched everywhere but always he was just too late. The stranger
had been and gone.

Now there was no anger in Lightfoot's desire to find that stranger.
Instead, there was a great longing. For the first time in his life
Lightfoot felt lonely. So he hunted and hunted and was unhappy. He lost
his appetite. He slept little. He roamed about uneasily, looking