lip. "He's got a nest here, somewhere, I
know. Let's look, for we must have some of the eggs, if we can.
Perhaps the hen-bird is sitting somewhere close by."

The boys then set to work searching the bushes of the little rivulet
that flowed from the basin, and no doubt their search would have been in
vain, but for the timid hen-bird, who flew out from the hole where, sure
enough, she was sitting, and betrayed the place in which her nest had
been made.

It was a hole in the overhanging bank, and Harry had little difficulty
in thrusting his hand in and drawing out three eggs, which he carefully
deposited in his pocket.

They then followed the course of the rivulet for about a quarter of a
mile to where it emptied itself into the tarn or little lake of which
Harry had spoken. It was indeed a dark tarn, with water looking almost
black from its depth, which was said to be enormous, and here some
gigantic eels were supposed to dwell, though nobody had ever caught,
nobody had ever seen, and nobody ever heard of any being either seen or
caught; but still eels of a mighty size were said to be in the tarn, and
the reason for their not being caught was supposed to be the depth. As
they came up to the lake, Dick ran on first and dashed into the reeds at
the side, splashing and paddling about, and here and there taking to
swimming. Just as he entered one great tuft of green reeds, rushes, and
withes, there was an extra amount of splashing, and away flew, or rather
ran along the surface of the water, a moorhen, with her thin attenuated
toes just paddling the surface.

"Hooray," said Harry, calling Dick off, "here's a nest; moorhen's eggs,
boys, moorhen's eggs!" and off he started to reach the nest; but here
Master Harry was as badly off as when in the cedar-tree at home, for the
moorhen had evidently intended to keep human visitors away, and Harry
found that the coveted eggs, if any, were certainly not upon _terra
firma_. Every step the lad took showed more plainly how treacherous was
the surface round the tarn; for it was entirely composed of bog-moss--
that pretty moss that turns of a creamy white, tinged with pink or
salmon colour, when dried--and soon Master Harry could only progress by
stepping daintily upon the little bunches of heath that grew amidst it,
or upon the occasional tufts of last year's dead reeds and rushes. But,
light as the boy was, he soon found this mode of progression would not
do, for, making a boun