At Bald Peak he was somewhat revived by the cold mountain air of the early
morning. As he alighted upon the station platform he spoke to the
baggage-master standing in front of the steps.
"Was the little boy of a man named Dent lost in the mountains near here?"
"Yes--three days ago," replied the baggage-man.
"Have they found him yet?"
"No--nor never will alive--that's my opinion."
Howard asked for the nearest livery-stable and within twenty minutes was on
his way to Dent's farm. His driver knew all about the lost child. Two
hundred men were still searching. "And Mrs. Dent, she's been sittin' by the
window, list'nin' day and night. She won't speak nor eat and she ain't shed
a tear. It was her only child. The men come in sayin' it ain't no use to
hunt any more, an' they look at her an' out they goes ag'in."
Soon the driver pointed to a cottage near the road. The gate was open; the
grass and the flower-beds were trampled into a morass. The door was thrown
wide and several women were standing about the threshold. At the window
within view of the road and the mountains sat the mother--a young woman
with large brown eyes, and clear-cut features, refined, beautified, exalted
by suffering. Her look was that of one listening for a faint, far away
sound upon which hangs the turn of the balances to joy or to despair.
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