“Have you found no traces of Carrie, Abner?” asked the father, anxiously.

“No, sir,” said Abner.

“Have you met Julius?”

“No, sir.”

“I, too, have been unsuccessful; but I am impressed with the belief that my dear child is somewhere in this wood.”

“Very likely, sir. It would be nat’ral for an Indian to make for the woods; that is, if he’s got her.”

“I am afraid there is no doubt of that,” sighed Mr. Taylor. “Do you think he would hurt her, Abner?” he asked, anxiously.

“No, I reckon not. He’d keep her to get money out of you.”

“I would rather give half my fortune than lose my darling.”

“It won’t be necessary to go as high as that, Mr. Taylor. Most likely he’s got her in here somewhere. If we go together, we’ll be too much for the red rascal¹.”

“Come on, then, and may God speed us.”

So they entered the wood, and plunged² deeper and deeper into its gloom. By and by Abner’s attention was drawn³ to a white fragment of paper, half concealed⁴ in the grass. Elsewhere it would not have been noticed, but in the woods it must evidently have been dropped by some one.

He picked it up, and glanced at it.

“Hurrah!” he shouted. “It’s the boy’s hand-writing.”

“What boy?”

“Julius.”

“Give it to me, quick,” said Mr. Taylor.

“Read it out loud,” said Abner, almost equally interested.

Mr. Taylor read:

“I am with Carrie and the Indian. He is leading us into the middle of the wood. I will drop pieces of paper here and there on the way.”

“Bully for Julius!” said Abner. “We’ve got the Indian now, sure.”

“I am glad he is with Carrie. She would be so frightened,” said Mr. Taylor.

“That’s true. She thinks a heap of Julius.”

“He is a good boy—quick-witted, too, or he wouldn’t have thought of the paper.”

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