"Oh, Ally dear, are you sure you 're not hurt?" exclaimed Jim; "never mind about the stone; was it that made you fall?"
"But I must mind about the stone," said Ally. "You have n't got any such stone among all yours; it was as pretty almost as the leaves; it 's right down here, under the old root that tripped me up. I wanted to get it for you, brother Jim,"—and she tried to slip away from his arms to look for it.
"Stay still, Ally, stay still. I 'll find it," said I. "What sort of stone was it?"
"Oh, beautiful," said Ally; "it shone, and it was shaped like my prisms! Oh, do find it, Mr. Will."
I searched in vain; the old tree had been partially uprooted, and its scrawny underground branches exposed to light, had twirled themselves into strange shapes. Stones and earth had piled up around them, and a big mullein was growing on the very top of the root; coarse white pebbles and sharp bits of granite were lying all about, but no such stone as Ally described could I see.
"Dear little Ally, you must have fancied it; as you fell, things looked different to you; there is n't any such stone here."
Ally rarely contradicted, or urged any point; but her child's heart was too firmly set on the pretty stone to abandon it without a further effort.
"But, Mr. Will, I saw it before I fell. It was that tripped me up. I mean, I went to stoop over and pick it up, and I caught my foot." This was
