She circled the pool and went on, trailing carefully, but the bed beyond was composed of shale, blue and sharp—hard going for a child’s bare feet, she thought compassionately—and gave no sign of a crossing. For another hour she went on, scanning the walls, the fallen stones, the stream itself and every nook or corner where anything might hide. She was far in Blue Stone Cañon by this time and wondered at the endurance which could have brought a child so far. Or had some one come and taken it away? That was possible, of course, and yet—a grown up person would have left marks in the soft sand assuredly. She would—but at this point in her train of thought, she came around a sharp jut in the wall—and face to face with her quarry, or at least with part of it. Startled, the dog she had seen the day before was crouched in the narrow way that led around the jut, his body half turned, one foot raised, tail lowered, and the face he turned back across his shoulder was the most vicious thing Nance had ever seen. He was crouched to spring, and the fury of his snarls, audible above the sound of the stream, made that odd clutch close her throat which always accompanies sudden horror. Nance Allison was a brave woman, but she was scared then. She stood rooted to the spot and could not tear her eyes from the dog’s pale flaming orbs to look at the little creature which she knew was running with a flurry of rags and naked arms up along the cañon wall. For a long moment they eyed each other, then, without other warning than a flicker of those flaming eyes, the Collie sprang. He came high, sailing up and forward, his forepaws spread, his head thrust out and downward, his jaws gaping. In the second that followed instinct acted in Nance, not reason. Instead of recoiling, she surged forward to meet the onslaught, her right arm raised before her like a horizontal bar. The faded denim sleeve was down and buttoned at the wrist, where the gauntlet of her cheap leather glove made a cuff. Into that gaping mouth went the arm, jamming hard, while she flung her left arm around the ruffed white throat like a clamp. If she was surprised at her own instinctive and prompt action, the Collie was more so. Down on the sand went girl and dog, a rolling, tumbling bundle. In the half second which served to make the dog the victim instead of the attacking force, his outlook on the situation was completely changed. He had charged in a fury of rage. Now he fought frantically, but it was to free his mouth from the choking bar that filled it, to get his head out of the vice which held it. But Nance found herself in a dilemma, too. She was afraid to let go. As she rolled over in the struggle she cast desperate eyes up along the wall where she had seen the eerie small figure running in its rags. True enough, it was there, stopped, facing her, bent forward, its little hands clasped in a curiously old fashion of distress.