"I wasn't hungry," I answered. "I've been hunting for my mother since
daylight."
"You poor child!" said she. "Come right into the kitchen and I'll get
you some breakfast. Come in, and we'll find out how you can find
your mother!"
While she got me the breakfast which I needed as badly as any meal I
ever ate, she questioned me as to relatives, friends, habits, and
everything which a good detective would want to know in forming a theory
as to how a clue might be obtained. She suggested that I find every man
in the village who had a team and did hauling, and ask each one if he
had moved Mr. Rucker's family.
"Why didn't she write to you?" she finally queried.
"She didn't know where I was," I replied.
"Did she ever leave word for you anywhere," asked the woman, "before you
ran away?"
"We had a place we called our post-office," I answered. "An old hollow
apple-tree. We used to leave letters for each other in that. It is the
tree I sat under all night."
"Look there," said the woman. "You'll find her! She wouldn't have gone
without leaving a trace."
Without stopping to thank her for her breakfast and her sympathy, I ran
at the top of my speed for the old apple-tree. I felt in the hollow--it
seemed to be filled with nothing but leaves. Just as I was giving up, I
touched something stiffer than an autumn leaf, and pulling it out found
a letter, all discolored by wet and mold, but addressed to me in my
mother's handwriting.
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