room and said a prayer of thankfulness.

And from that time the child's heart was lighter than ever, and she sang
all day long like a tuneful mocking-bird, blending all the sweet strains
of her friends in one delightful song, until winter passed away, and the
snow melted, and the snow-drop peeped out of the ground, and said,
timidly, "I am here: spare me, O Wind!" and while the spring covered the
earth with daisies and dandelions and May buds and brave honest grass,
and flung delicate blossoms all over the orchards. Then came the summer
once more, and started millions of lovely "green things a-growing," and
filled the trees with thousands of joyous young birds.

And one glowing July day, early in the morning, Birdie wandered off to
the woods, as she had often done before, to look for wild flowers, and
gather some green food for her feathered pets. "I'll be back again in a
little while, mamma," she said, as she left the cottage. But the hours
went by, and noon came, and she had not returned.

"Where is my little maid?" called her father, cheerily, as he came in to
dinner from the field where he had been working; but no little maid
replied.

"She has gone for bird weeds and flowers," said her mother. "She will be
here in a few moments."

But the dinner was eaten, and the father went back to his work, and
still no Birdie came.

The clock struck one--struck two--struck three, and then, her heart
growing heavier and heavier at every step, the frightened mother started
out to look for her darling. North, south, east, west, half a mile each
way from the cottage, she ran, stopping every few minutes to call,
"Birdie! Birdie!" but only the echoes answered her call. At last to the
field where her husband was working she flew. "Leave the plough," she
cried, wringing her hands, "and look for the child."

North, east, south, west, a mile each way from his home, went the
father, shouting, "Birdie! Birdie, little maid!" and the echoes
repeated, "Birdie! Birdie, little maid!" but no other sound he heard
except the rustling of the leaves and the whir of insect wings. The sun
was beginning to sink in the west when, tired and heart-sick, he came
back again. "Perhaps she is there now," he thought, a ray of hope
lighting up his face as he neared the garden gate; but a glance at his
wife's tearful eyes as she came to meet him told him he had hoped in
vain. "I'll saddle the horse and ride to the village," he said, "and
every father the