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The whistle shrilled up the narrow valley, echoing back and forth from the steep green hills that bounded it. Mrs. Mifsud, however, had seemingly heard not a word of the story. In her distress she forgot that Mrs. Wopp was decidedly plebeian in her conversation and otherwise hopelessly unfashionable; all these discrepancies vanished from her mind, and leaning over on the ample bosom, she wept copiously. Mrs. Wopp patted her in a motherly way. “One touch o’ nater makes the hull world a-kin,” she whispered, “Hearten up, Mis’ Mifsud, Moses ’ll find yer little lamb. That boy seems slow, but all’s not gold that’s a-glitterin’. He’s shorely got a nose fer findin’ things. Our black carf got lost on the prairie one day an’ he found it arter everybody else hed giv’ up huntin’.” “Oh, no; there aren’t any. Billy says so, and he knows. He knows, too, that there are other people here beside the Italians.”.

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Mrs. Wopp was much too energetically engaged to enter into fuller argument. She busied herself preparing the tubs for rinsing, singing in a high tremolo, “Shall we gather at the river?” The boy went into the street again, mounted[208] and rode rapidly round the corner. His own home was across the way; his mother might see him at the office and call him. But once out of sight he stopped to consider what came next. Who was the right man to tell after the Doctor? The Sheriff! “Surely; but—” Jenny, my own true loved one.