"At that word out burst the terrible tidings. My stick, my poor old stick, my life-long friend, the faithful companion of so many walks, was missing, was gone, was lost! Last night, on our return from the lane, the place in the pony-chaise where Sam and I had carefully deposited it was found vacant. Already hue and cry had everywhere been made. 'And really, ma'am,' quoth she, 'there is some comfort in the interest people take in the stick. If it were anything alive, the pony or Fanchon, or little Henry, or we ourselves, they could not be more sorry. Master Brent, ma'am, at the top of the street, he promises to speak to everybody; so does William Wheeler, who goes everywhere; and Mrs Bromley at the shop; and the carrier; and the postman. I dare say the whole parish knows it by this time! I have not been outside the gate to-day, but a dozen people have asked me if we had heard of _our_ stick. It must turn up soon. If one had but the slightest notion where it was lost!' . . . . . . "Well! we at last sate down on our old turf seats, not far from the entrance of a field, where an accident (in the wheat-carrying, which was then in full activity) had evidently taken place; a loaded waggon must have knocked against the gate, and spilt some of its topmost sheaves. The sheaves were taken away, but the place was strewed with relics of the upset, and a little harvest of the long yellow straw and the rich brown ears remained to tempt the gleaners. As we were talking over this misfortune, and our own, and I was detailing my reasons for believing that my poor stick had found a watery grave, we became aware of two little girls, who stole timidly and quietly up to the place, and began gladly and thankfully to pick up the scattered corn. "Poor little things, we knew them well! We had known their father died of consumption scarcely a month ago; and affecting it was to see these poor children, delicate girls of seven and five years old, already at work to help their widowed mother, and rejoicing over the discovery of these few ears of fallen wheat, as if it were the gold mines of California. A drove of pigs was looming in the distance; and my little damsel flung down her work, and sprang up at once to help the poor children. She has a taste for helping people, has my little maid, and puts her whole heart and soul into such kindnesses. It was worth something to see how she pounced upon every straggling straw, clearing away all round the outside, and leaving the space within for the little girls. The ground was cleared before the drove came near.