crying in terror, ' Don't; don't, David! Oh,
don't.'

But David was gone. He was not long in
reaching the old man, who sate on his stone
breathing hard, as if out of breath with his
ascent, but not appearing to perceive David's
approach. The rain and the wind drove
fiercely upon him, but he did not seem to
mind it. David was half afraid to approach
close to him but he called out, ' Help; help,
mester! ' The old man remained as unconscious
of his presence. ' Hillo! ' cried David
again. ' Can you tell us the way down,
mester? ' There was no answer, and David
was beginning to feel a shudder of terror run
through every limb, when the clouds cleared
considerably, and he suddenly exclaimed,
' Why, it's old Tobias Turton of top of Edale,
and he's as deaf as a door nail! '

In an instant, David was at his side; seized
his coat to make him aware of his presence,
and, on the old man perceiving him, shouted
in his ear, 'Which is the way down here,
Mester Turton? Where's the track? '

' Down? Weighs o' the back? ' said the old
man; ' ay, my lad, I was fain to sit down; it
does weigh o' th' back, sure enough.'

' Where's the foot-track? ' shouted David,
again.

' Th' foot-track? Why, what art ta doing
here, my lad, in such a starm? Is 'nt it
David Dunster's lad? '

David nodded. ' Why, the track's here!
see; ' and the old man stamped his foot.
' Get down hom, my lad, as fast as thou can.
What dun they do letting thee be upon th'
hills in such a dee as this? '

David nodded his thanks, and turned to
descend the track, while the old man adjusting
his burden again, silently and wearily
recommenced his way upwards.

David shouted to his sisters as he descended,
and they quickly replied. He called to them
to come towards him, as he was on the track,
and was afraid to quit it again. They
endeavoured to do this; but the darkness was now
redoubled, and the wind and rain became more
furious than ever. The two sisters were soon
bewildered amongst the bushes, and David,
who kept calling to them at intervals to
direct their course towards him, soon heard
them crying bitterly. At this, he forgot the
necessity of keeping the track, and darting
towards them, soon found them by continuing
to call to them, and took their hands to lead
them to the track. But they were now
drenched through with the rain, and shivered
with cold and fear. David, with a stout
heart endeavoured to cheer them. He told
them the track was close by, and that they
would soon be at home. But though the
track was not ten yards off, somehow they
did not find it. Bushes and projecting rocks
turned them out of their course; and owing
to the confusion caused by the wind, the
darkness, and their terror, they searched in
vain for the track. Sometimes they thought
they had found it, and went on a few paces,
only to stumble over loose stones, or get
entangled in the bushes.

It was now absolutely becoming night.
Their terrors increased greatly. They shouted
and cried aloud, in the hope of making their
parents hear them. They felt sure that both
father and mother must be come home; and
as sure that they would be hunting for them.
But they did not reflect that their parents
could not tell in what direction they had
gone. Both father and mother were come
home, and the mother had instantly rushed
out to try to find them, on perceiving that
they were not in the house. She had hurried
to and fro, and called—not at first supposing
they would be far. But when she heard
nothing of them, she ran in, and begged of
her husband to join in the search. But at
first David Dunster would do nothing. He
was angry at them for going away from the
house, and said he was too tired to go on a
wild-goose chase through the plantations
after them. 'They are i' th' plantations,'
said he; ' they are sheltering there
somewhere. Let them alone, and they'll come
home, with a good long tail behind them.'

With this piece of a child's song of sheep,
David sat down to his supper, and Betty
Dunster hurried up the valley, shouting--
' Children, where are you? David! Jane!
Nancy! where are you?'

When she heard nothing of them, she hurried
still more wildly up the hill towards the
village. When she arrived there—the
distance of a mile—she inquired from house to
house, but no one had seen anything of them.
It was clear they had not been in that direction.
An alarm was thus created in the
village; and several young men set out to
join Mrs. Dunster in the quest. They again
descended the valley towards Dunster's house,
shouting every now and then, and listening.
The night was pitch dark, and the rain fell
heavily; but the wind had considerably
abated, and once they thought they heard a
faint cry in answer to their call, far down the
valley. They were right; the children had
heard the shouting, and had replied to it.
But they were far off. The young men
shouted again, but there was no answer; and
after shouting once more without success,
they hastened on. When they reached David
Dunster's house, they found the door open,
and no one within. They knew that David
had set off in quest of the children himself,
and they determined to descend the valley.
The distracted mother went with them, crying
silently to herself, and praying inwardly,
and every now and then trying to shout.
But the young men raised their strong voices
above hers, and made the cliffs echo with
their appeals.

Anon a voice answered them down the
valley. They ran on as well as the darkness
would let them, and soon found that it was
David Dunster, who had been in the planta-