to the decoys of the nearest gunner, went roaring into the oaks and hickories of New York, warmed the veins of New England fruit-trees, and finally coming to the giant fog, rent it apart by handfuls as you pluck feathers from a goose, and hurled it this way and that, until once more the sky and land could look each other in the face.  Then the great wind laughed and ceased.  For a long time Margaret looked down the cleared face of the river, but there was no trace of Aladdin, and in life but one comfort:  the sun was hot and she was getting warm.

After a time, in the woods directly behind where she sat hoping and fearing and trying to dry her tears, a gun sounded like an exclamation of hope.  Had Aladdin by any incredible circumstance returned so soon?  Mindful of his warning not to stray from where she was, Margaret stood up and called in a shrill little voice

“Here I am!  Here I am!”

Silence in the woods immediately behind where Margaret stood hoping and fearing!

“Here I am!” she cried.  And it had been piteous to hear, so small and shrill was the voice.

Presently, though much farther off, sounded the merry yapping bark of a little dog, and again, but this time like an echo of itself, the exclamation of hope—­hope deferred.

“Here I am!  Here—­I—­am!” called Margaret.

Then there was a long silence—­so long that it seemed as if nothing in the world could have been so long.  Margaret sat down gasping.  The sun rose higher, the river ran on, and hope flew away.  And just as hope had gone for good, the merry yapping of the dog broke out so near that Margaret jumped, and bang went the gun—­like a promise of salvation.  Instantly she was on her feet with her shrill,

“Here I am!  Here I am!”

And this time came back a lusty young voice crying: 

“I’m coming!”

And hard behind the voice leaves shook, and a boy came striding into the sunlight.  In one hand he trailed a gun, and at his heels trotted a waggish spaniel of immense importance and infinitesimal size.  In his other hand the boy carried by the legs a splendid cock-grouse, ruffled and hunger-compelling.  The boy, perhaps two years older than Aladdin, was big and strong for his age, and bore his shining head like a young wood-god.

Margaret ran to him, telling her story as she went, but so incoherently that when she reached him she had to stop and begin over again.

“Then Senator St. John is your father?” said the boy at length.  “You know, he’s a great friend of my father’s.  My father’s name is Peter Manners, and he used to be a congressman for New York.  Are you hungry?”

Margaret could only look it.

They sat down, and the boy took wonderful things out of his wonderful pockets—­sandwiches of egg and sandwiches of jam; and Margaret fell to.

“I live in New York,” said the boy, “but I’m staying with my cousins up the river.  They told me there were partridges on this island, and I rowed down to try and get some, but I missed two.”  The boy blushed most becomingly whenever he spoke, and his voice, and the way he said words, were different from anything Margaret had ever heard.  And she admired him tremendously.  And the boy, because she had spent a night on a desert island, which he never had, admired her in turn.