Part 6 (1/2)

Then, rather ashamed of her outburst, she went to pick up the hat again; but, setting foot on the edge of the green meadow, she drew it back hastily.

”Aha!” said Peggy. ”The peat-bog! _Now_ I've been and gone and done it!”

She whistled, a long, clear whistle that would have done credit to any one of her brothers, and gazed ruefully at the hat, which lay out of reach, resting quietly on the smooth emerald velvet of the quaking bog.

”Oh, bother! Now I suppose I shall have to fish the old thing out. It will never look fit to be seen again, and Margaret retrimmed it only the other day. Well, here goes!”

Looking about carefully, Peggy pulled a long bulrush from a clump that grew at the side of the bog. Then she walked along the edge, skirting with care the deceitful green that looked so fair and lovely, till she came to where a slender birch hung its long drooping branches out over the bog. Clinging to one of these branches, Peggy leaned forward as far as she dared, and began to angle for her hat. ”He rises well,” she muttered, ”but he doesn't bite worth a cent.”

Twice she succeeded in working the end of the bulrush through the loop of ribbon that perked cheerfully on the top of the hat; twice the loop slipped off as she raised it, and the hat dropped back. The third time, however, was successful, and the skilful angler had the satisfaction of drawing the hat toward her, and finally rescuing it from its perilous position. Not all of it, however; the flower, the yellow rose, once Peggy's pride and joy, had become loosened during the various unaccustomed motions of its parent hat, and now lay, lonely and lovely, a golden spot on the bright green gra.s.s. Peggy fished again, but this time in vain; and finally she was obliged to give it up, and go off flowerless in search of her strawberries.

Meanwhile, Margaret had been searching high and low for Peggy. John Strong could have told her where she was, but he had gone to a distant part of the farm, and no one had seen the two talking together.

”A search for Calibana?” said Rita, when her cousin inquired for the wanderer. ”My faith, why? If she can remain hidden for a time, Marguerite, consider the boon it would be!”

[Ill.u.s.tration: PEGGY AT THE BOG.]

But Margaret turned from her impatiently, seeing which, Rita was jealous, and said, ”I had hoped you would take a walk with me, _ma cousine_. I perish for air! I cannot go alone through these places,--I might meet a dog.”

Margaret could not help laughing.

”I think you might,” she said. ”And what then?”

”I should die!” said Rita simply. Then, linking her arm in her cousin's with her most caressing gesture, she said, ”Come with me, _alma mia_. We walk,--very likely we find La Calibana on our way. She cannot have strayed far, it is too near dinner-time; and she has a clock inside her; you know it well, Marguerite.”

Margaret could not refuse the offered company, and they set out in the same direction that Peggy had taken. Margaret had been in the oak woods several times with Peggy, and thought she might very likely find her there; but no one answered her call; only the trees rustled, and the hermit-thrush called in answer, deep in some thicket far away.

Presently, as they walked, there shot through the dark oak branches a sunny gleam, a flash of green and gold. They pressed forward, and in another moment stood on the edge of the quaking bog. But they had not been warned; neither had they Peggy's practised eye, which would have told her even without the warning that this was no safe place.

”Oh, what a lovely meadow!” cried Margaret. ”I always wondered what lay beyond these woods, but have never come so far before. Shall we cross it, Rita? or does it look a little damp, do you think?”

”It may be damp,” said Rita indifferently. ”I care not for damp, _tres chere_. Let us cross, by all means. And look! see the golden flower; what can it be?”

”I don't know, I am sure!” said Margaret, gazing innocently at the yellow muslin rose which had been under her hands only the day before.

”It looks--I don't know what it looks like, Rita. But I am afraid the gra.s.s is very wet. Don't you see the wet s.h.i.+ning through?”

”Pouf!” said Rita. ”Wait thou here, faint heart, while I bring the flower; that, at least, I must do, even if we go no further.”

She stepped over the gra.s.s so lightly and quickly that she had gone some steps before her feet began to sink in the black, oozy bog. Margaret saw the water bubbling up behind her, and cried to her in alarm to come back; and Rita, finding the earth plucking at her feet, turned willingly toward the solid ground; but return was impossible. She tried to lift her feet, but the bog held them fast, and with the effort, she felt herself sinking, slowly but surely.

”Ah,” she cried, ”it is bad ground! It is a pit, Marguerite! Do not move, do not come near me! Run and get help!” For Margaret was already stepping forward with outstretched hands.

”Stop where you are!” cried Rita imperiously. ”Do you not see that if you come in, we are both lost? I tell you there is no ground here, no bottom! I sink, I feel it sucking me down, down! Ah, _Madre_! go, Marguerite, fly for help!”

Poor Margaret turned in distraction. Whither should she fly? They were more than a mile from home. How could she leave her cousin in this dreadful plight? Before help could come, she might be lost indeed, drawn bodily under by the treacherous ooze. She turned away, but came running back suddenly, for she heard a sound coming from the opposite direction, a cheerful whistle.

”Oh, Rita!” she cried; ”help is near. I hear some one whistling, a boy or a man. Oh, help! help! Come this way, please!”

The whistle changed to a cry of surprise, uttered in a familiar voice.