But Tilderee was sure that she knew best. "No, Fudge," she called;
"not that way. This is the right path, I'm sure. Come quick!" Vainly
the sagacious animal used all his dumb arts to induce her to rely upon
him; vainly he crouched and whined, and begged her to go _his_ way.
Tilderee obstinately stumbled on in the opposite direction. Fudge laid
down and watched her despairingly for a few moments; then, with a sigh
almost like that of a human being, he sprang after her. If actions
speak louder than words, could he have said more plainly: "Well, if you
_will_ get lost, I must go with you to take care of you?"
They wandered on, far beyond the source of the stream, emerged from the
wood, and strayed along the side of a deep gorge or canon. At every
step the surroundings grew wilder, the way more rocky and precipitous.
If she had been older, what terrors would have affrighted the child!
An appalling dread of the Indians, fear of the wild cattle of the
wilderness, the apprehension of countless dangers. But in her baby
innocence, Tilderee knew nothing of these perils. She only felt that
she was weary and chilled, and faint for want of food.
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