e wise old woman of Hollowbush had described, and heard far below the rushing and tumbling of a brook.
Surely I must have been deceived! she thought.
Here was no strange country sown with jewels, but simply a rocky ravine, where ferns waved in the wind, clinging to the rocks, and catching the spray from the water as it bubbled and hissed and fell in a snowy pool below.
"This can't be the place," said the child, as she looked around; "but while I am here I may as well see what it is."
So she clambered over the loose stones and decaying logs till she reached the level of the stream, and there, strangely enough, scattered among broken bits of granite, were small bright stones of a deep wine-color. "These are not diamonds," she said to herself, "but they are too pretty to lie neglected here, whatever they may be."
She gathered them one by one, tying her handkerchief into four knots at the corners for a basket; and so absorbed was she that she had quite forgotten the weird shadow