There was no saying how
far the helpless child might have strayed, not being blessed with
that peculiar sense which would have guided Toby back to the hut from
any distance, He might have wandered now many leagues away; still
Toby, the dog who had watched over his infancy, would not return
until he found him again. The dog thought now in his own solemn
fashion, What did Maurice like best? Ah! wise Toby knew well: the
pretty things, the soft things, the good things of life were little
Maurice's desires; plenty of nice food, plenty of warmth and
sunshine, plenty of pretty things to see, to touch. In the forest
what could Maurice get? Food? No, not without money; and Toby knew
that Cecile always kept those little magic coins, which meant so much
to them all, in her own safe keeping. No, Maurice could not have food
in the forest, but he could have flowers. Toby therefore would seek
for the straying child where the flowers grew. He found whole beds of
hyacinths, of anemones, of blue-bells, of violets; wherever these
grew, there Toby poked his sagacious nose; there he endeavored to
take up the lost child's scent. At last he was successful; he found a
clew. There was a trampled-down bed of violets; there were withered
violets scattered about. How like Maurice to fill his hands with
these treasures, and then throw them away. Clever Toby, sniffing the
ground, presently caught the scent he desired. This scent carried him
to the main road, to the place where the caravan had stood.
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