Then he began calling.

"Father!" he called.
"Father! father!" over and over again, stopping between to listen.
There was no sound in response; there was no sound in the wood except the soft and elusive rustling of the new foliage, like the rustling of the silken garments of some one in hiding or some one passing out of sight.

It brought also at this early season a strange sense of a presence in the wood.

Jerome felt it, and called with greater importunity: "Father! father! father, where be you?
Father!" Jerome looked very small among the trees--no more than a little pale child.

His voice rang out shrill and piteous.