The days came and went. Little Lea was now four years old. She played on the grave-mounds during the long, bright summer days, crept about under the branches of the elder bushes quietly and happily, and beneath the clothes which her mother had hung up in long lines above the graves to dry. Soon autumn came with its long damp evenings. It became dark early, and when Miriam was detained till a late hour, Lea used to wait for her patiently in their little room. She knew that ere long she would hear her mother's step outside, and her voice calling her as she opened the door. She could then run into her arms, and a fire would soon be burning to cook a warm supper. But once, on a raw, cold September night, it was not so. The washerwoman came home and called her child, but no answer came. Trembling, she struck a light. The room was empty. "Lea!" she cried again, loudly and sharply. Still no answer. She let her hands fall helplessly at her sides. Recovering herself quickly, she rushed into the room of her neighbor, the gravedigger who had formerly been under her husband, and who had succeeded to his place. "My child!" she cried; "where is my child?" The man and his wife stared at her as if she were mad. "How should we know?" they at length answered, with hesitation. "She is gone! Oh, help me, help me!" the mother cried in desperation, as she turned and hurried out into the dark burial-ground. The gravedigger's wife searched the highroad which leads toward the town, while the man followed Miriam. He distinguished her dark figure amongst the mounds and headstones, but he was unable to over-take her. She was running wildly over every obstacle, now stepping on a gravestone, and again stumbling over the root of a tree, calling her child loudly as she ran. The man knew the place well, and its terrors had become commonplace in his eyes; but still his hair stood on end with fear, as he ran in the dark over the graves, and the mother's despairing cry fell on his ears. They both neared the spot where the burial-ground is bounded by the deep, sluggish river Lered. "The fence is broken," muttered the man, and he tried not to follow up the thought that had occurred to him. But fate had been merciful. As they hastened along by the side of the fence, and Miriam, with an almost failing voice, called her child, suddenly, from behind a gravestone, a thin trembling voice answered--"Mother!" The little girl had run about the whole day. When the dusk had surprised her in this distant place, she had sat down and fallen asleep. The child only half comprehended why her mother seized her hastily in her arms, and pressed her to her breast, covering her little face with a thousand kisses and tears.