Up and down, up and down, wearily searched the faithful Peter, occasionally filled with great hope, for the scent which he followed would appear quite fresh and near, but the next moment he lost all clue again. At last, in spite of himself, Peter had almost made up his mind to the terrible thought that his little grey-coated mate had been trapped, or perhaps she had become bewildered and lost her way in some deep, dark hole, finally perishing of hunger. Of course the little possums weighed her down heavily, so she could never climb up out of the ditches. Peter very sadly and reluctantly made up his mind to give up his vain search and go back to the swamps again. But they say "'Tis always darkest before dawn," and that very night, when he was about to give up, he struck into an unusually deep ditch. A stray moonbeam filtered down into the dark hole, lighting up the path ahead for some distance. Then, all of a sudden, Peter thought he saw something moving toward him; perhaps it was a coon, for dearly the coons love to roam through the broom-corn ditches when the young corn is in the milk. The longer Peter looked at the thing coming toward him, however, the less did it appear like a coon, and somehow, it seemed strangely familiar to him--the heavy swaying, waddling body; and the next moment Peter saw, where the moonlight struck it, the thing was all _silvery grey_. The reason Peter did not recognise his little mate in the first place, for indeed it was Mrs. Possum herself, was just this: It seems that the eleven little possum babies had been gone so long, they had now quite outgrown their mother's pocket, and so she had let them all climb out upon her broad, silvery back. And in order to keep them together safely, she showed each little possum that by curling its tail tight around her own long, muscular one, which she carried over her back, it might ride in safety. In this fashion Mrs. Possum herself waddled hopefully up and down the long, maze-like ditches, vainly looking for an outlet. "Grr-r-r-r," rumbled the delighted Peter, recognising his mate, and greeting her in his queer possum way by rubbing his black nose fondly against Mrs. Possum's black, pointed snout. Then Peter and his mate with the eleven little possum children still clinging to her back turned about, and Peter found the right road at last, which led them all straight back to the swamp.