"All day long she comes out and looks for the child. One
knows, now, that the poor little one can never come back to us," and as
the big man spoke there was a queer choking in his voice.
The younger man did not speak, but he patted his friend's shoulder in a
kindly manner, which showed that he too was very sorry.
"Even you have lost heart, Jack," said the big bushman, "but we will find
her yet; the wife shall have that comfort."
"You'll never do it now," said the young fellow with a mournful shake of
the head. "There is not an inch of ground that so young a child could
reach that we have not searched. The mystery is, what could have become
of her?"
"That's what beats me," said the tall man, who was Dot's father. "I think
of it all day and all night. There is the track of the dear little mite
as clear as possible for five miles, as far as the dry creek. The trackers
say she rested her poor weary legs by sitting under the blackbutt tree.
At that point she vanishes completely. The blacks say there isn't a trace
of man, or beast, beyond that place excepting the trail of a big Kangaroo.
As you say, it's a mystery!"
As the men walked towards the bush, close to the place where Dot had run
after the hare the day she was lost, neither of them noticed the fuss and
scolding made by a Willy Wagtail; although the little bird seemed likely
to die of excitement.
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