of fish and spreading them on the “flakes”—long low frames—to dry. Captain Starkweather and Amanda’s father were near by, busy at the same work, and further along the shore were other groups of men taking care of the “catch” of the previous day. For the dried fish were shipped to many distant places, and curing them was a part of the fisherman’s business.

“Anne is gone! She has run away,” called Mrs. Stoddard, and in a moment she was telling Captain Enos that she was sure that the little girl had crept out of the house in the night. Captain Starkweather and Mr. Cary listened in amazement.

“But where could she go?” asked Captain Enos. “There’s something wrong in this. Anne called to me from her window yesterday that she knew not the reason for her being punished. She has run away from us, Martha, because we have been unfair toward her.”

“But where? Stop not to talk, Enos. Is there a boat missing? Like as not Anne has set forth for Boston.” And Mrs. Stoddard looked out over the wide harbor as if expecting to see Anne sailing away.

“It may be your little girl is playing about and will soon return,” suggested Captain Starkweather.

“Is her doll gone?” questioned Captain Enos; “for if it is not you may be sure that Anne is not far away.”

“Indeed, I did not think to look; and you may be right, Captain Starkweather. I’ll step back and see,” and Mrs. Stoddard’s face brightened as she turned toward home, followed by Captain Enos and the two fishermen.

“The doll is gone,” she called down from the little chamber, “and Anne’s cape and beads, and her shoes and stockings.”

In a short time every one in the village knew of Anne’s disappearance, and Amanda heard her father say that he feared Anne had started off in one of the little boats. “If she has there is small chance for the child,” he said soberly, and Amanda began to whimper.

“She gave me Amanda’s basket to bring home yesterday,” said Amos; “’tis in the shed.”

“Yes, she ran off with it yesterday, and ate all the lunch herself,” explained Mrs. Cary, “and slapped Amanda. Your sister came running home crying as if her heart would break.”

“Anne didn’t eat the luncheon. ’Twas all in the basket, and I ate it,” said Amos. “I don’t believe she slapped Amanda, anyway. Or if she did I’ll bet Amanda slapped her first.”

“Amos!” Mr. Cary’s voice was very stern, and the boy said no more.

It was found that a rowboat was missing, and remembering how Anne and the Cary children had once started out to sail to Boston, it was generally believed that Anne had started off in the boat. Nevertheless search-parties went across the narrow strip of land to the outer beach and up and down the shore of the harbor and along the edge of the Truro woods. Several boats started off, for it was felt that the best chance of finding her was the hope that the little boat could not have gone very far. “It may have been swept out to sea,” Mr. Cary said, and at this Amanda set up such a wail that he instantly added: “But Anne will be found; of course she will.”

CHAPTER III

A NEW FRIEND

“It’s morning!” And Anne sat up and looked about with surprised eyes. Little flecks of sunshine came through the sheltering branches of the tall pine, squirrels ran up and down its trunk, and there were chirpings and calls of birds among the near-by trees. “And I’m not half-way to the top,” continued Anne, shaking off the feeling of drowsiness, and springing up from the soft moss. She picked up her bundle and “Martha Stoddard” and started on. “’Tis about the time that Aunt Martha and Uncle Enos are eating porridge,” she thought longingly, and then remembered that on the hillside, not far from the top, there was a spring of cool water, and she hurried on. She could hear the little tinkling sound of the water before she came in sight of the tiny stream which ran down the slope from the bubbling spring; and laying down her doll and the bundle she ran forward, eager for a drink. She knelt down and drank, and then turned to pick up her belongings, but the bundle and doll had disappeared. Anne looked about as if she could not believe her eyes. “They must be here!” she exclaimed aloud, and at that moment “Martha Stoddard” peered at her astonished owner from behind a tree. The little wooden doll appeared to walk. Then it bowed very low, and vanished. Anne ran to the tree, but Martha was not there; but the doll’s head could be seen behind a small bush, almost within Anne’s reach; but now Anne stopped, remembering that dolls, even dolls like Martha, could not play hide-and-seek. She felt bewildered, and, although Martha bowed and even tried to dance, Anne did not approach a step nearer. She could see that a small brown hand was keeping a tight grasp on Martha, and as she watched this hand a brown face peered out at her over Martha’s head—the brown smiling face of an Indian girl, probably several years older than Anne. After looking at Anne for a few seconds she came out from behind the cluster of bushes. “She’s as tall as Rose Freeman,” was Anne’s first thought.

“Where is my bundle?” she demanded, for although the Indian girl held Martha Stoddard in plain sight the bundle was not visible.

The Indian girl shook her head smilingly, and Anne repeated, “Bundle! Bundle!” and then exclaimed, “Oh, dear, she doesn’t know what I say.”

The girl now came a step or two nearer, holding out the doll for Anne to take. Her hair was very black and thick, and braided in one heavy plait. There was a band of bright feathers about her head, and she wore a loose tunic of finely dressed deerskin which came to her knees, and was without sleeves. Her arms and feet were bare, and as she stood smiling at Anne she made a very pretty picture.

Anne reached out her hand for the doll, and as she did so the Indian girl grasped it firmly, but in so gentle a manner that Anne did not draw back. The girl drew her along, smiling and saying strange sounding words in her own language, of which Anne could understand but one—“Mashpee.” This was the name of a tribe of Cape Cod Indians who owned land, and who were always kind and friendly toward the white settlers; Anne was quite sure that the girl was telling her that she belonged to that nation.

The Indian girl circled around the big tree near the spring, and there lay—spread out on the moss—Anne’s pretty blue cape, her white muslin dress, and her shoes and stockings and the bright coral beads. The Indian girl knelt down and picking up the beads fastened them about her own neck; she then threw the cape over her own shoulders, and, picking up the shoes and stockings, placed them in front of Anne, and put the muslin dress beside them.

It needed no words to explain this; she had selected what she wanted from the bundle and Anne could have the things that the Indian girl did not want.

Anne’s face must have expressed what she felt, for the smile faded from her companion’s lips, and the dark eyes grew unfriendly. She snatched the doll from Anne, and turned as if to run away.

“Nakanit!”

Both the girls gave a little jump, for they had been too much engrossed in each other to notice that an Indian squaw had come along the path, and had stopped a short distance from them. As she spoke the Indian girl started toward her, and began to talk rapidly. Anne stood waiting,