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"Father!" she cried again.

She could not see his face, for he lay with it turned away from her, but she saw his thick brown hair, curling and matted. Then she put her hand through the branches and touched him. He felt queer—hard, somehow, as if not made of ordinary flesh and blood. Her fear returned and she began to tremble.

"Father!"

She tried to shake him out of his unnatural sleep, but he was like a log, and when her groping hand found his it was quite cold—and stiff. She could not bend the fingers.

Again she nearly ran away, but her fear itself held her back. She dared not leave an unsolved mystery to haunt and pursue her—she must somehow find out . . . make sure . . . She moved her hand from his cold hand to his face. That too was cold, and moist and sticky. She quickly drew away her hand, and saw that there was blood on it.

She was nearly sick. She wanted to run away and could not. She screamed:

"Father! Father!"

But now she knew that he was dead.

§ 25

She crouched with starting eyes like a hare in her form; then suddenly she was released from within, and sprang up, running with all her speed, running like a hare, panting and straining, till once more she saw the barn-roof among the trees, and felt reassured by the familiar signals of her world.