went out to check the storm damage. Meris heard a shout and the dozen echoes that returned diminishingly from the heavily wooded mountainsides. She pushed the window curtain aside and peered out as she finished drying a plate. Mark was chasing a fluttering something, out across the creek. The boisterous waters were slapping against the bottom of the plank bridge and Mark was splashing more than ankle-deep on the flat beyond as he plunged about trying to catch whatever it was that evaded him. 'A bird,' guessed Meris. 'A huge bird waterlogged by the storm. Or knocked down by the wind maybe hurt ' She hurried to put the plate away and dropped the dish towel on the table. She peered out again. Mark was half hidden behind the clumps of small willows along the bend of the creek. She heard his cry of triumph and then of astonishment. The fluttering thing shot up, out of reach above Mark, and seemed to be trying to disappear into the ceaseless shiver of the tender green and white aspens. Whatever it was, a whitish blob against the green foliage, dropped down again and Mark grabbed it firmly. Meris ran to the door and flung it open, stepping out with a shiver into the cold air. Mark saw her as he rounded the curve in the path. 'Look what I found!' he cried. 'Look what I caught for you!' Meris put a hand on the wet, muddy bundle Mark was carrying and thought quickly, 'Where are the feathers?' 'I caught a baby for you!' cried Mark. Then his smile died and he thrust the bundle at her. 'Good Lord, Meris!' he choked, 'I'm not fooling! It is a baby!' Meris turned back a sodden fold and gasped. A face! A child face, mud-smudged, with huge dark eyes and tangled dark curls. A quiet, watchful face-not crying. Maybe too frightened to cry? 'Mark!' Meris clutched the bundle to her and hurried into the cabin. 'Build up the fire in the stove,' she said, laying her burden on the table. She peeled the outer layer off quickly and let it fall soggily to the floor. Another damp layer and then another. 'Oh, poor messy child!' she crooned. 'Poor wet, messy, little girl!'' 'Where did she come from?' Mark wondered. 'There must be some clue-' He changed quickly from his soaked sneakers into his hiking boots. 'I'll go check. There must be something out there.' His hands paused on the knotting of the last bootlace. 'Or someone.' He stood up, settling himself into his jeans and boots. 'Take it easy, Meris.' He kissed her cheek as she bent over the child and left. Meris's fingers recalled more and more of their deftness as she washed the small girl-body, improvised a diaper of a dish towel, converted a tee shirt into a gown, all the time being watched silently by the big dark eyes that now seemed more wary than frightened, watched as though the child was trying to read her lips that were moving so readily in the old remembered endearments and croonings. Finally, swathing the small form in her chenille robe in lieu of a blanket, she sat on the edge of the bed, rocking and crooning to the child. She held a cup of warm milk to the small mouth. There was a firming of lips against it at first and then the small mouth opened and two small hands grasped the cup and the milk was gulped down greedily. Meris wiped the milky crescent from the child's upper lip and felt the tenseness going out of the small body as the warmth of the milk penetrated it. The huge dark eyes in the small face closed, jerked open, closed slowly and stayed closed. Meris sat cradling the heavy warmth of the sleeping child. She felt healing flow through her own body and closed her eyes in silent thanksgiving before she put her down, well back from the edge of the bed. Then she gathered up the armful of wet muddy clothes and reached for the box of detergent. When Mark returned some time later, Meris gestured quickly. 'She's sleeping,' she said. 'Oh, Mark! Just think! A baby!' Tears came to her eyes and she bent her head. 'Meris,' Mark's gentle voice lifted her face. 'Meris, just don't forget that the baby is not ours to keep.' 'I know-I' She began to protest and then she smoothed the hair back from her forehead, knowing what Mark wanted to save her from. 'The baby is not ours-to keep,' she relinquished. 'Not ours to keep. Did you find anything, or anyone,' she hesitated. 'Nothing,' said Mark. 'Except the top of our pine is still there, if you've bothered to check it. And,' his face tightened and his voice was grim, 'those vandals have been at it again. Since I was at the picnic area at Beaver Bend they've been there and sawed every table in two and smashed them all to the ground in the middle!' 'Oh, Mark!' Meris was distressed. 'Are you sure it's the same bunch?' 'Who else around here would do anything so senseless?' asked Mark. 'It's those kids. If I ever catch them-' 'You did once,' said Meris with a half smile, 'and they didn't like what you and the ranger said to them.' 'Understatement of the week,' said Mark. 'They'll like even less what's going to happen to them the next time they get caught.' 'They're mad enough at you already,' suggested Meris. 'Well,' said Mark, 'I'm proud to count that type among my enemies!' 'The Winstel boy doesn't seem the type,' said Meris. 'He was a good kid,' acknowledged Mark, 'until he started running with those three from the Valley. They've got him hypnotized with that car and all their wild stories and crazy pranks. I guess he thinks their big-town fooling around has a glamor that can't be duplicated here in the mountains. Thank heaven it can't, but I wish he'd wise up to what's happening to him.' 'The child!' Meris started toward the bed, her heart throbbing suddenly to the realization that there was a baby to be considered again. They looked down at the flushed, sleeping face and then turned back to the table. 'She must he about three or four,' said Meris over the coffee cups. 'And healthy and well cared for. Her clothes-' she glanced out at the clothes line where the laundry billowed and swung 'they're well-made, but ' 'But what?' Mark stirred his coffee absently, then gulped a huge swallow. 'Well, look,' said Meris, reaching to the chair. 'This outer thing she had on. It's like a trundle bundle-arms but no legs-just a sleeping bag thing. That's not too surprising, but look. I was going to rinse off the mud before I washed it, hut just one slosh in the water and it came out clean-and dry! I didn't even have to hang it out. And Mark, it isn't material. I mean fabric. At least it isn't like any that I've ever seen.' Mark lifted the garment, flexing a fold in his fingers. 'Odd,' he said. 'And look at the fasteners,' said Meris. 'There aren't any,' he said, surprised. 'And yet it fastens,' said Meris, smoothing the two sections of the front together, edge to edge. She tugged mightily at it. It stayed shut. 'You can't rip it apart. But look here.' And she laid the two sides back gently with no effort at all. 'It seems to be which direction you pull. There's a rip here in the back,' she went on. 'Or I'll bet she'd never have got wet at all-at least not from the outside,' she smiled. 'Look, the rip was from here to here.' Her fingers traced six inches across the garment. 'But look-' She carefully lapped the edges of the remaining rip and drew her thumb nail along it. The material seemed to melt into itself and the rip was gone. 'How did you find out all this so soon?' asked Mark. 'Your own research lab?' 'Maybe so,' smiled Meris. 'I was just looking at it-women look at fabrics and clothing with their fingers, you know. I could never choose a piece of material for a dress without touching it. And I was wondering how much the seam would show if I mended it.' She shook the garment. 'But how she ever managed to run in it.' 'She didn't,' said Mark. 'She sort of fluttered around like a chicken. I thought she was a feathered thing at first. Every time I thought I had her, she got away, flopping and fluttering, above my head half the time. I don't see how she ever-Oh! I found a place that might be where she spent the night. Looks like she crawled back among the roots of the deadfall at the bend of the creek. There's a pressed down, grassy hollow, soggy wet, of course, just inches above the water.' 'I don't understand this fluttering bit,' said Meris. 'You mean she jumped so high you-' 'Not exactly jumped-' began Mark. A sudden movement caught them both. The child had wakened, starting up with a terrified cry, 'Muhlala! Muhlala!' Before Meris could reach her, she was fluttering up from the bed, trailing the chenille robe beneath her. She hovered against the upper windowpane, like a moth, pushing her small hands against it, sobbing, 'Muhlala!
