Tilderee might get up a "make-believe" funeral, and bury it under the
white rosebush. Yes, that would be the prettiest spot; and for old
affection's sake the thing should be done properly if she came back,
--ah, _if_! And then Joan would put her head down upon the table or a
chair, whichever happened to be near, or hide her face in the folds of
her apron, and cry: "What _shall_ I do without Tilderee! Oh, if God
will only give her back to us, I will never say a cross or angry word
again!"
Dawn brought no news of the lost child, and the dreary night of
suspense was succeeded by a day of anguish. At intervals the seekers
sent a message back to the desolate home. Sometimes it was: "Keep up
your courage; we trust all will be well." Or, "Though we have not yet
found the child, please God we will soon restore her to you," and so
on. But, soften it as they could, the fact remained--their expedition
had been fruitless: Tilderee was still lost. They at length despaired
of gaining trace or tidings of her, and agreed that it was useless to
continue the search.
"She must have fallen over a precipice," maintained one of the men.
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