It was not until he
happened to need his scissors that the terrible fact burst upon him:
Eppie had run out by herself- had perhaps fallen into the Stone-pit.
Silas, shaken by the worst fear that could have befallen him, rushed
out, calling 'Eppie!' and ran eagerly about the unenclosed space,
exploring the dry cavities into which she might have fallen, and
then gazing with questioning dread at the smooth red surface of the
water. The cold drops stood on his brow. How long had she been out?
There was one hope- that she had crept through the stile and got
into the fields where he habitually took her to stroll. But the
grass was high in the meadow, and there was no descrying her, if she
were there, except by a close search that would be a trespass on Mr
Osgood's crop. Still, that misdemeanour must be committed; and poor
Silas, after peering all round the hedgerows, traversed the grass,
beginning with perturbed vision to see Eppie behind every group of red
sorrel, and to see her moving always farther off as he approached. The
meadow was searched in vain; and he got over the stile into the next
field, looking with dying hope towards a small pond which was now
reduced to its summer shallowness, so as to leave a wide margin of
good adhesive mud. Here, however, sat Eppie, discoursing cheerfully to
her own small boot, which she was using as a bucket to convey the
water into a deep mark, while her little naked foot was planted
comfortably on a cushion of olive-green mud.
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