“Sure there are. That’s just the kind of woods that has fairies. But they only come out at night, you know.”
“Yes, but it’s only just a little past night now. The sun has only been up a short time. Maybe there are some fairies there yet.”
“Maybe; let’s go and see.”
With a skip and a jump the children started for the woods, which, however proved to be farther away than they had thought.
They trudged merrily on, stopping now and then to speak to a robin, or kick at a dandelion, but at last they came to the edge of the grove.
“Oh, Dick!” cried Dolly, in ecstasy, “think of having a real woods, right in our own yard! Isn’t it gorgeous!”
“Great! but go softly now, if we want to see fairies. I’m ’fraid they’ve all gone.”
Hand in hand the children tiptoed into the wood. They moved very cautiously, lest they should step on a twig, or make any noise that should frighten the fairies.
“There’s where they dance,” whispered Dick, pointing to a smooth, green mossy place. “But of course they always fly away when the sun rises.”
“Yes, I s’pose so,” said Dolly, regretfully. “Shall we come out earlier to-morrow?”
“Yes; or we might come out to see them some night. Moonlight nights; that’s the time!”
“Would you dare? Oh, Dick, wouldn’t it be grand!”
“Hey, Dolly, there’s a squirrel; a real, live one! That’s better’n fairies. Oh, look at him!”
Sure enough, a grey squirrel ran past them, and now sat, turning his head back to look at them, but ready for instant flight if they moved.
But they didn’t move, they knew better; and scarce daring to breathe, they sat watching the wonderful sight.
Meantime, there was consternation in the household. At seven o’clock Miss Rachel had sent Hannah, the waitress, to call the twins.
The maid returned with a scared face, and announced that the children had gone.
“Gone!” cried Miss Rachel, who was engaged in making her own toilet; “where have they gone?”
“I don’t know, ma’am; but they’re not in their rooms, and the front door is wide open.”
“Oh, they’ve run away!” cried Miss Rachel, and hastily throwing on a dressing gown, she went to her sister’s room.
“Get up, Abbie,” she exclaimed. “Those children have run away!”
“Run away? What do you mean?”
“Why, they’ve gone! I suppose they didn’t like us. Perhaps they were homesick, or something. Abbie, do you suppose they’ve gone back to Chicago, all alone?”
“Nonsense, Rachel, of course they haven’t! Children always rise early. They’re probably walking in the garden.”
“No, I don’t think so. Something tells me they’ve run away because they don’t like us. Oh, Abbie, do you think that’s it?”
“No, I don’t. Go on and dress. They’ll be back by the time you’re ready for breakfast. If you’re worried, send Hannah out to hunt them up.”
So Hannah was sent, but as she only looked in the verandas and in the gardens near the house, of course, she didn’t find the twins. By the time the ladies came downstairs, Hannah had impressed Pat and Michael into service, and all three were hunting for the missing guests.
But it never occurred to them to go so far as the woods, where Dick and Dolly were even then sitting, watching the grey squirrel, and looking for fairies.
“I’m thinkin’ they’ve fell in the pond,” said Pat, as he gazed anxiously into the rather muddy water.
“Not thim!” said Michael; “they’re not the sort that do be afther drownin’ thimsilves. They’re too frisky. Belikes they’ve run back to the brook where they shtopped at yisterday. Do yez go there an’ look, Pat.”
“Yes, do,” said Miss Rachel, who, with clasped hands and a white face was pacing the veranda.
“Don’t take it so hard, sister,” implored Miss Abbie. “They’re around somewhere, I’m sure; and if not, – why, you know, Rachel, you didn’t want them here very much, anyway.”
“How can you be so heartless!” cried Miss Rachel, her eyes staring reproachfully at her sister. “I do want them; they’re brother’s children, and this is their rightful home. But I wish they wanted to stay. I’m sure they ran away because they didn’t like us. Do you think we were too harsh with them yesterday?”
“Perhaps so. At any rate, they have run away. I thought they were in the garden, but if so, they would have been found by now. Do you suppose they took an early train back to New York?”
“Oh, Abbie, how can you say so! Those two dear little mites alone in a great city! I can’t think it!”
“It’s better than thinking they are drowned in the pond.”
“Either is awful; and yet of course some such thing must have happened.”
The two ladies were on the verge of hysterics, and the servants, who had all been hunting for the children, were nonplussed. Pat had jumped on a horse, and galloped off to the brook which had so taken their fancy the day before, and Michael stood, with his hands in his pockets, wondering if he ought to drag the pond. Delia, the cook, had left the waiting breakfast and had come to join the anxious household.
“I’m thinkin’ they’re not far off,” she said; “why don’t ye blow a horn, now?”
“That’s a good idea,” said Miss Abbie; “try it, Michael.”
So Michael found an old dinner-horn that had hung unused in the barn for many years, and he blew resounding blasts.
But unfortunately, the babes in the woods were too far away to hear, and forgetful of all else they watched two squirrels, who, reassured by the children’s quiet, ran back and forth, and almost came right up to Dick and Dolly’s beckoning fingers.
“If only we had something to feed them,” said Dick, vainly hunting his pockets for something edible.
“If only we had something to feed ourselves,” said Dolly; “I’m just about starved.”
“So’m I; let’s go back now, and come to see the squirrels some other time, and bring them some nuts.”
“All right, let’s.”
So back they started, but leisurely, for they had no thought of how the time had slipped by. They paused here and there to investigate many things, and it was well on toward nine o’clock when they came within hearing of Michael’s horn, on which he was blowing a last, despairing blast.
“Hear the horn!” cried Dick. “Do you s’pose that’s the way they call the family to breakfast?”
“Oh, it isn’t breakfast time, yet,” said Dolly, confidently. “I’m hungry enough, but it can’t be eight o’clock, I know. And, besides, I want time to tidy up.”
The clean frock had lost its freshness, and the blue bow was sadly askew, for somehow, try as she would, Dolly never could keep herself spick and span.
They trudged along, through the barnyard and the garden, and finally came to the kitchen door, which stood invitingly open.
“Let’s go in this way,” said Dolly; “it’s nearer, and I can skin up to my room and brush my hair. I don’t want Auntie Rachel to think I’m always messy.”
In at the back door they went, and as the kitchen was deserted, they looked around in some surprise.
“Might as well catch a bun,” said Dick, seeing a panful of rolls in the warming oven.
The