Hector laughed.

"I think the bird's quite safe," he said.

Dolly thought so too. She did not want to hurt the bird, she was really speaking in fun. But all the same she aimed at it, and--oh, sad and strange to say--_she hit it_! a quiver of the little wings, and the tiny head dropped, and then--in a moment it had fallen to the foot of the high wall on which it had perched so happily a moment before!

The children rushed forward breathlessly. Dolly could not believe that she had hurt it, scarcely that she had hit it.

But alas! yes. It was quite dead.

Hector held it in his hand. The bright eyes were already glazed--the feathers limp and dull.

And oh, worse and worse, it was a wren. A little innocent, harmless wren.

Dolly's sobs were bitter.

"I'll never touch a catapult again," she said. "A nasty horrid cruel thing it is. And I didn't really mean to hit the poor wren."

"It was only a fluke, then," said Hector, who, in spite of his sorrow for the wren, had felt some admiration for his sister's skill.

"N--no, not that," she said. "I _did_ aim, but I never thought I'd hit it. Still, Hector, it shows you I _can_ hit, you see;" and the thought made her leave off crying for a moment or two. But the sight of the poor little wren changed her triumph into sorrow again.

"I've done with shooting," she said, as she threw the unlucky catapult away.

And then she covered up the dead wren in her handkerchief and went in to tell her troubles to "mamma."

Her mother was very sorry too.

"You must think of it as a sort of accident," she said. "But let it be a lesson to you, dear Dolly, never to do anything half in joke, or for fun as it were, which could cause trouble to any one if it turned into earnest."

There was some comfort in the thought that it was late autumn, and not spring-time, so there was no fear of poor little Jenny Wren's death leaving a nestful of tiny orphan fledglings. And Hector helped Dolly to bury the bird in a quiet corner of the garden.

But all the same, Dolly has never liked catapults since that unlucky day!

[Ill.u.s.tration]

A VERY LONG LANE OR LOST IN THE MIST

Have you ever been lost? Really lost. I mean to say have you ever had the _feeling_ of being lost? It is rather a dreadful feeling. I had it once and I have never forgotten it. I will tell you about it.

I was about fifteen at the time. We were living for some months in a large country house belonging to relations of ours, in the west of England. In that part of the world many of the roads are really only narrow lanes, where two carriages cannot pa.s.s--it is very awkward indeed sometimes, if you meet a cart or any vehicle at a narrow part. One or other has to back ever so far, till you come to a gateway or to a little outjut in the lane making it wider just there. And these lanes are sunk down below the level of the fields at their sides, and there are high hedges too, so that really you may drive for miles and miles and scarcely know where you are. It is difficult to know your way even in broad daylight--even the people who live there always, have often to consult the finger-posts, of which, I must allow, there are plenty! And for strangers or new-comers it is _very_ puzzling.

We got on pretty well however. My elder sisters drove about a great deal in a jolly little two-wheeled pony cart, and as I was small and light, I was often favoured with an invitation to accompany them, sitting in the back seat, which was _not_ luxurious.

"It does very well for Thecla," my sisters used to say, "she is so thin.

And she's as handy as a boy about jumping out to open the gates."

I didn't mind--I was only too pleased to go, in any way, and rather proud to be called handy.

So I got to know the country pretty well, and I would not have been afraid, by daylight at least, to go a good distance alone.

One day some friends who lived about three miles off, came to luncheon with us. There were two or three grown-up ladies, and a girl just about my age, named Molly. She was my princ.i.p.al friend while we were living there, as she was very nice and we suited each other very well. The older people, both of her family and of mine, drove away in the afternoon to a large garden party some way off, to which we were thought too young to go, or very likely there was not room for us in the carriages. But we were very happy to stay behind. We were to have tea together, and then it was arranged that I was to take Molly half-way home.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Off we set, in very good spirits,]

"Be sure you are not later in starting than half-past five," said my mother, "so that you can be back before it begins to get dark," for it was already September.

And Molly's mother repeated the warning, only adding, "I am not the least anxious about Molly--she knows the way so well. But it might be puzzling for Thecla, as our lanes are really a labyrinth after dark."

"Oh I am _sure_ I couldn't get lost between here and Three Corners," I said, laughing. "Three Corner Court" was the quaint name of Molly's home.

Well--we found the afternoon only too short--we enjoyed our nice tea very much, and felt rather reluctant to set off as soon as it was over.

"It is barely half-past five," I said. But Molly was very determined.

"We must start," she said. "I feel responsible for you, Thecla, for you will have to come back alone."

"As if I _could_ lose my way, when I have only to come straight back the way you take me," I said, "and I have been a bit of that way before."

We were not going by the road but by a short cut, part of which was a foot-path through the fields, and _generally_, I had driven to Three Corners, so that there was some reason for Molly's carefulness.

"Don't be too sure," she said, "you don't know how like some of the fields are to each other, as well as the lanes. We have regular landmarks we depend upon."

Off we set, in very good spirits, laughing and talking. We laughed and talked a little too much perhaps, for though the very first part of the way was through our own grounds, where I could not of course have gone astray, we soon came to a succession of fields--several of them ploughed land--which certainly were very like each other. We crossed two or three lanes, going a few steps in one direction or the other to get to the gates, and keeping always in the same line ourselves. Suddenly Molly stopped in the middle of a very interesting discussion of a book we had been reading.

"Thecla," she said, "you've come more than half way--you must turn back now, for it will be getting dusk. And oh dear, I didn't point out the old hawthorn at the gate of the great Millside field--and it _is_ so easy to mistake it for Southdown field, and then you'd get all wrong."

[Ill.u.s.tration: It was a ploughed field, and it really was "up"]

"I'm sure I remember it," I said, "and I don't see how I _could_ go wrong if I keep in the same direction."

"Ah, but it's so easy to get out of the same direction without knowing it," she said, "once the sun's gone. Now _do_ be careful," and she repeated a few more warnings.

I kissed her and ran off gaily. For a while all went well. I had crossed two lanes and three gra.s.s fields when I found myself for the first time at a loss. Was I to go straight through the gate facing the one I had come out by, or go a little way down the lane? Was this the place to look out for the hawthorn bush? If so, there was no hawthorn bush here, so I decided to go down the lane a little. It seemed a good way before I came to a gate, and when I did, there was no bush or tree of any kind.

But I felt sure that up this field was in the right line, so on I went.

It was a ploughed field and it really was "up," for it sloped rather steeply. Oh how tired I was when I got to the top! But now I thought all my troubles were over--I had only to go a quarter of a mile along the lane, to reach our own back entrance to the stables.

[Ill.u.s.tration: I was not half-a-mile from the Hall!]

"What a good thing I am so near home," I thought, as I became aware that almost in a moment a thick grey mist had risen--all around was bathed in it, and I ran on as fast as I could.

The mist now and then cleared a little, but the night was falling fast and I saw no sign of the white gates I was looking for. I ran the faster--but the hedges remained unbroken, and after a while I was forced to own to myself that somehow or other I had _got into the wrong lane_!

Oh dear! I dared not turn back--I just ran on, and the mist grew thicker again. I soon got so tired, that the temptation was strong to sit down at all costs. And if I had done so I might have fainted or fallen asleep, and not perhaps been found till too late!

It was a dreadful feeling--after a while I think I began to get rather dazed and stupefied, from fatigue and anxiety. I had only just a sort of instinct that at all costs I _must_ keep going.