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.

“If so, we should have met with some sign—­” argued another, hesitating at the thought of what that sign might be.

“It is probable that she has been stolen by the Indians,” said Lieutenant Miller, of the Fort; “and we must adopt other means to recover her.”

Once more dusk was approaching, and they were about to turn back, when—­hark! there was a shout from the borders of the canon beyond.  A few moments before, Abe, the old scout, had disappeared in that direction.  As he pressed onward he presently discovered that, in a wavering line, the brambles seemed to have been recently trodden down.  A little farther on, almost hidden among the briers and dry leaves, lay a withered wild flower, like those that grew in the plain below; and farther still, caught upon a bush, was a bit of the fringe of a shawl, so small that it might have escaped any but his “hunter’s eye.”  As he stood still, with senses alert, he heard a sound amid the brush; and, turning quickly, saw that which made him send forth the ringing halloo to his comrades.  It was a little dog crawling down toward a hollow, where a spring of water gushed from the ground.

“Fudge!” he called, softly.  The dog started, fawned upon him with a low whine; and, with many backward glances to make sure that he was following, led the way to a high rock which shelved inward, forming a sort of canopy above the bank.  There, in the rude recess, as he felt confident would be the case, was the lost child.  At first he feared she might be dead, so pale and motionless she lay; but when he whispered gently, “Tilderee!” the white eyelids fluttered, then unclosed; the dull eyes lighted up in recognition, and she smiled a wan, weak little smile.  Once more Abe’s cheery voice rang out, calling, “Found! found!” and the woods and cliffs made merry with the echoes.  His companions hastened toward the ravine; but he met them half way, carrying the little one in his arms.

What a shout of joy greeted the sight!  What a feeling of thankfulness filled each heart!  Mr. Prentiss, strong man though he was, at the relaxing of the terrible tension, fainted like a woman.  For a second Peter felt his brain in a whirl, then he leaped upon Twinkling Hoofs, whom he had been leading by the bridle, breathed a word in the ear of the clever mustang, and sped away like the wind, “to tell them at home.”  Who could describe the emotions of the fond mother when, half an hour later, she clasped her darling to her breast?